#Roman is the gray one if you were wondering

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

Chapter 2: What A Great Freakin’ Way To Start The Day

Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader, Reader POV

Summary: When you decided to work with Butcher and his merry band of supe hunters to take down Homelander, you never expected to be saddled with a sullen, grumpy, jerk like Soldier Boy when the job was done. The more you’re around him the more you hate him, but you can’t help but wonder, is he really as big a jerk as you think? Reader is a supe with plant powers. This takes place in an AU about a month after the end of The Boys Season 3, in which Butcher has let Soldier Boy continue to work with him on his team. (I'm real bad at summaries, please forgive me!)

Tropes: Enemies to Lovers (Not in this chapter), Age Difference (Reader is in her 20s), Protective Ben/ Soldier Boy,

Word Count: 5.2K

Warnings: I'm going to label this 18+ because Soldier Boy (he's a warning and everyone knows it), swearing, mentions of sex, sexual innuendo, sexual tension. Ben/Soldier Boy might be a little bit OOC.

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is minimal use of y/n. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

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The morning begins the same way it always does, with your neighbor Mike blasting "I Will Always Love You" in his apartment at exactly 8 am just as he had each day since you met two years ago. It was the only constant in your life, but at least you didn't have to use an alarm clock anymore. The sound of Mike belting out the lyrics at the top of his lungs was enough to wake everyone in the whole building, including the people on the eighth floor, five stories above him.

But because Mike bought the super’s probably illegally made cologne and because the super was dating Mike’s mother, something that made you regret supe hearing very much, it never stopped despite the numerous complaints.

Then again it was Annie's favorite thing about sleeping over, she liked to scream the lyrics back at the wall and jump on your bed like a crazy banshee. Honestly you hoped that it would stop after Ben had pretended to be your boyfriend, that Mike would finally figure it out and give up.

Guess not.

You sit up in your bed, stretching your hands over your head while humming the chorus under your breath, but you were more of an ABBA fan. If Mike had decided to serenade you with "Take A Chance On Me" or even Aretha Franklin's "You're All I Need to Get By," you might have looked at him differently.

The memory of the dream of his mullet smothering you in your sleep momentarily passes over your mind, causing a shudder to travel down your spine. Or maybe not.

Your bedroom was similar to your living room, covered in plants. Trailing jasmine and bougainvillea blanketed the wall behind your bed in deep red and white, budding lavender, lilac, and honeysuckle sat in pots along the top of your dresser, and a blush colored rose bush, that never went out of bloom, stood proudly in the corner. The only difference was that there were two large piles of books almost as tall as your ceiling, some old some new, braced beside the rose bush like Roman columns. You kept trying to remember to buy a bookshelf, but each time you thought about going to pick one up, Butcher usually called and asked you to help out. Both piles were covered almost completely in pothos and more hung from the brick walls above your only window, that opened the floor length pale yellow curtains with a flick of your hand.

An annoyed purring sound greets your ears as the honeyed light from the now open window wisps over your covers. Bean, your cat, stalks up from the end of the bed, his yellowed eyes narrowed with annoyance at being woken up so early while his charcoal gray coat turns lighter in the brilliant sunlight. Last night he had been in your bedroom when you got home, which meant that he hadn't been around Ben when he came in.

A good thing, because Bean hated just about everyone except Butcher, which you thought was weird. But whenever Butcher dropped by to talk to you Bean always came over to look for rubs, while hissing at anyone who tried to interrupt them. Hughie was actually afraid of Bean, and because Bean was a cat he immediately picked up on this and purposely would jump on the couch next to Annie so Hughie couldn't sit there, Bean also followed after Hughie to the bathroom and waited outside the door to swipe at his ankles whenever he would come out.

But you didn't love him any less.

He puts his paw on your thigh lightly extending his claws to get your attention.

"Oh are you talking to me now?" You smile, rubbing him behind the ears. "I thought you were angry because I woke you up?"

He purrs and pushes his chunky gray head against your hand, but startles when the song switches to "My Heart Will Go On" which causes Mike's mother to join in to his karaoke session.

I'd move if my apartment wasn't so damn cheap.

"Maybe they should take the show on the road. Huh buddy?"

Bean purrs his response while pushing his head further into your hand.

His mom wasn't that bad of a singer, in fact, you thought that you remembered eavesdropping on a conversation between her and the super when she talked about a career as a cabaret singer a while ago.

"Come on, let's see if Gramps killed any of my plants." You smile down at your cat. "If he did I'm going to turn him into a tree."

Bean purrs in agreement.

You get out of bed, adjusting your shirt back down over your shorts before walking to the door with Bean following behind you. You step out into the cool hallway, with more enthusiasm than usual as you try to escape the butchering of the Titanic's soundtrack and collide into something warm and wet.

It takes you exactly seven seconds to realize that the warm, wet, thing that your face is currently stuck to, is in-fact Ben's chest, his shirtless chest. Why he's standing in the hallway outside your door, soaking wet and wearing a towel you have no idea. All you know is that your face is physically laying against the warm flesh of his pectoral muscles.

"Why are you NAKED?" You scream as you peel yourself off of him and turn your gaze away. Your face felt so warm that it was like you'd been standing in front of a volcano for too long and you were sure that you had blushed to the roots of your hair.

You'd only seen him without his shirt on once, when the door to his bedroom was cracked at the apartment he shared with the rest of the group. But it was from the back and you had been walking by to go to the bathroom, and you hadn't looked…

Well, you may have stopped for a second to admire the powerful muscles on his muscular back and maybe thought about waiting for him to turn around so you could see if the front was as good as the back… but you hadn't.

And he certainly hadn't been soaking wet then, and it made you hate him more now, because no one should look as good as he does soaking wet. You personally knew that you looked like a drowned poodle whenever you stepped out of the shower, but him? Soldier Boy looks like he just finished filming a shampoo commercial.

You could see it in your head, him standing under a crystal blue waterfall with the water splashing against weathered rocks before running through his soft brown hair, curving around his broad shoulders, down his toned stomach straight down to his-

NO. Not gonna go there. You could feel your skin heating in embarrassment, almost as if you thought he could read your mind.

"I'm not naked doll, I mean I could be if you wanted me to." He smirks as he hears your heartbeat begin to pick up and reaches for the end of his towel. The towel that was almost too small to wrap around his waist and left very little to the imagination.

"NO!" You shout holding up a hand to stop him, but again brush the front of his chest.

Fuck, you could zest a lemon on those abs.

"Are you sure?" Ben smiles wider, taking a step forward. He's so close that you can smell your grapefruit mint shampoo on him and feel the humidity and warmth of his body as he stands there. For some reason the fact that he used your shampoo, and smelled like your soap, made you feel warm and tingly. It was almost hypnotic. You hated how much you liked it. "Because you're turning that cute little red color you always do whenever I'm around, and your heartbeat is kinda fast."

"No. I don't." You grit your teeth together. "Why are you standing outside of my door naked?"

"Maybe I was waiting for you to come out." His hand presses against the doorway next to your head. "You know, I already took a shower, but if you wanted I'd be happy to get back in with you."

"No thanks. I don't need a shower and I wouldn't shower with you if it was the last shower on earth and I hadn't bathed in forty years." You purse your lips. "Oh right, that happened to you."

Ben frowns at your mention of his time in Russia. You didn't often tease him about being trapped in a lab, you knew that it was a sore spot for him. Plus you'd seen the footage of exactly what those doctors did to him and it was enough to make you want to book a one way ticket to Russia and personally show them what happened when a tree got shoved up your ass.

You open your mouth to apologize.

"I was going to ask if you have any other clothes here. Mine are still wet from last night." He raises an eyebrow, but the humor is gone from his eyes.

"Oh. Um. I can take a look." You turn and walk into your bedroom, trying not to feel awkward about bringing up the lab.

He was a jerk, but he didn't deserve a reminder of how shitty the last forty years have been.

Truthfully, you weren't sure if you had anything that would fit him. Ben was a lot bigger than you, taller and broader. You usually did wear things that were a little big for you, but you didn't think that Ben would fit in any of them.

Maybe I have something from when my brother was here last time.

Darren often dropped by when he was in the city visiting his friends or had a new "business" venture. The ones that never seemed to last and the friends that always seemed happy to spend the moan you "loaned" him for his "best idea yet" as he always phrased it. But he hadn't been by in at least a year.

"It's really green in here too." You hear Ben say under his breath.

You didn't think that he was going to follow you into your room, you thought he was going to stay in the hallway, but no, he had followed you. And he made the room feel even smaller than it was with his broad shoulders and over six foot stature.

The sunlight from the window glinted off his still wet chest and it made your throat uncomfortably tight. For the love of chocolate pudding, WHY does he look so good all the time?

"You can wait in the hall-"

"Wanted to see your bedroom." He smirks. "Though I think that you wanted to show it to me last night-"

You ignore him and turn back to your chest of drawers while Mike and his mother switch to "What Makes You Beautiful" by One Direction. You wince as they begin.

"Do they always do that?" Ben asks.

"Yep. Since I moved in." You sigh, shuffling through your t-shirts.

"He's really got it bad Sweetheart. Maybe you should throw him a bone. Kinda seems like the poor guy needs to get some ass-"

"If it's any of your business- which it's not- I do not like him that way."

"Well they're a little loud." You feel Ben take a step closer to you. "But I bet you and I could give them a run for their money. We are in your bedroom after all, might as well make the most of it."

"I didn't know that you liked Karaoke. I'll keep that in mind for you 105th birthday party."

"What? No I meant-"

Bean purrs loudly from his position on your bed and you wait for the telltale sound of Ben shooing him away when Bean tries to puncture Ben's impenetrable skin with his claws, but it doesn't come.

You glance over your shoulder. Are you kidding me?

Bean is sitting on your white plush comforter, rubbing up against Ben's hand, purring while Ben scratches him behind the ears.

Traitor.

"Didn't know you had a cat." Ben says continuing to stroke his hand down Bean's spine, who stands up and turns so Ben can have a better angle.

"I didn't peg you for a cat person. Kinda ruins the whole all-American Man image you have going on."

He shrugs. "I like dogs more, but I don't hate cats. Usually they don't like me very much."

"I wonder why that is." You grumble watching Bean lean into Ben's hand again. "His name is Bean."

"Bean? Why?"

"Because when I got him I was trying to grow green beans in the linen closet and he would sit outside the door and screech until I gave him a green bean to play with."

"You were trying to grow green beans in the linen closet?"

"Yeah. Seemed like a good idea, but they like the bathroom more-" You finally find the oversized Led Zeppelin shirt your brother left the last time he crashed at your apartment and a pair of jeans. "A lot of my plants like the bathroom more actually."

"I was going to ask you why the bathroom floor and wall was squishy."

"It's moss. It thrives in humid environments." You hold out the clothes for him.

"Uh-huh." He frowns at the clothes for a minute. "So you're saying you wouldn't want a guy to serenade you like that?" Ben nods his head towards your bedroom wall, just as Mike and his mother begin to belt out the chorus. "Thought girls liked sappy shit."

"I'm not a fan of One Direction."

"Right. You like ABBA more." Ben turns towards your door to go back to the bathroom to change.

Shock momentarily spikes in your chest. "How did you know that?"

He freezes as if you caught him doing something bad, turning slightly towards you. "Um- well, you hum their songs a lot."

"When?" You cross your arms over your chest.

"Whenever you're on stake outs. Sometimes when you're reading those files or waiting for Annie at the apartment." He shrugs. “When you were walking last night you were humming ‘Fernando.’"

He noticed that?

"How long exactly were you following me?"

"Long enough." He raises an eyebrow. "Are you trying to keep me talking because you want me to change in here? Because I would be more than happy to drop this towel and show you what a real man looks like Sweetheart."

"Don't flatter yourself Gramps. If you drop that towel the only thing that'll happen is Bean will think you brought him a green bean to play with." You roll your eyes. "Now get out of my room. I have to change."

Ben begins to say something, but the vines hanging above the door push him out into the hall and shut the door behind him.

That felt good.

After you put on a white t-shirt, your favorite pair of jean overalls and your dark green converse, you make your way out into the living room. Ben is there, lounging on your couch like he owns it. He’s wearing the jeans and t-shirt you gave him, but you can't help but notice how the clothes are just a little too small for him. The way his muscles pull at the t-shirt, the way the jeans hug his thighs and butt-

He's getting way too comfortable here. You think to yourself to avoid the thought of how good he looks on your couch. How it almost feels natural that he's sitting here in your living room, inhabiting your space.

"So what's for breakfast doll face?" He leans his head back to gaze at you with a mischievous smile that makes a warm tingle travel down the length of your spine.

"Well, I'm going to have oatmeal and you're going to have whatever you want I guess?"

His eyes darken. "Whatever I want?"

"Calm down Gramps I meant that there's cereal in the cabinet." You roll your eyes to avoid thinking about the kiss last night and then thinking about how it felt for your body to be pressed against his in the hallway when you ran into him.  Which inevitably leads back to the waterfall fantasy and-

No. No. Not going to do that. Not with him. He's just good at getting women into bed, he doesn't care about you. You think about how he remembered that you liked ABBA. That doesn't mean anything. He doesn't see me as anything more than a conquest and he probably remembered that because he's changing tactics and trying not to act like a creep.

“You’re not going to pour me a bowl?” His smirk pulls down in an attractive pout.

“I think it’s simple enough for your little brain to do.” You don’t turn around from the kitchen cabinets, grabbing a raspberry from the refrigerator and popping it in your mouth. For some reason you noticed that whatever you grew tasted better than anything you bought at the grocery store. You hoped that it didn’t mean that your powers supercharged whatever you grew and that it was actually radioactive or something. 

Because that’s exactly what I need, to turn bright green. 

“There’s nothing little about me doll.” 

“Can’t you ever have a conversation with someone without it revolving around sex?” You grumble banging around in your cabinets to find your instant oatmeal. 

It was a valid point and you were tired of getting whiplash every time Ben acted caring and then flipping back to horny manchild.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Ben laughs. He stands from the couch and makes his way into your kitchen.

It was hard not to notice how small each room in your apartment looked with him in it. His head was only a foot below the ceiling, not to mention the kitchen was only composed of six cabinets, a small sink, a microwave shoved into a corner, a stove top, and a refrigerator that only came up to Ben’s shoulders. Your bathroom was worse, sometimes the shower was small even for you and you didn’t know how Ben fit in there. 

He probably had to duck down to stand under the shower head. 

And then as you thought that, the image of Ben standing under a waterfall comes creeping back, making the strawberry plant on top of the fridge, the raspberry vines, and the blackberry vines covering your refridgerator burst into bloom.

Thankfully Ben didn’t notice, because he was rooting through the white top cabinet in the corner for one of the cereal boxes. 

I’d never hear the end of it if he saw that happen. 

You glare at the plants in question, eyes shifting to a deep green as the flowers develop into fresh fruit to cover your slip. 

Ben pulls out a box of Lucky Charms, but frowns at Lucky on the front cover, who is throwing a handful of marshmallow charms into the air around him. 

Guess he's not a fan.

 “If I’d known you were going to sleep on my couch I would have gotten Bran flakes and prunes for you.” You smirk as you pour water over the oats in the bowl before placing it in the microwave to cook. “I know people your age need that kind of thing sometimes. Gets the bowel moving.”

“Make fun of my age all you want.” Ben steps around you to grab the almost empty bottle of milk from your refrigerator. “One day you’ll be happy to find out just how experienced I am.”

“Keep dreaming.”

His dark eyes meet yours. “You’re all I dream about baby.”

You can feel his breath on the side of your neck from how close he is to you, the kitchen seems smaller than it ever has, and he leans forward, sensing your hesitation. One of his hands goes on the kitchen counter to your right, the other places the milk down and then braces on the counter to your left caging you against him. 

“Do any of your lines actually work?” You say, throat tight.

“You’d be surprised.” He smirks wider, green eyes sliding up and down your body. 

 The air in the kitchen electrifies, something passing through the air between the two of you that makes you feel like your heart is going to burst out of your chest. His eyes are softer green now, reminding you of the color of fresh leaves on an oak tree in spring, bright, strong, and full of life. His body is pressed gently against yours, the strong muscles of his abdomen laying on your hips, muscular arms making sure that you don't walk away.

You try not to think again about how good he looks in your apartment, how calm and relaxed he seems when he’s away from Butcher and not wearing his uniform. 

Standing here in your apartment, he looked normal, human. Sometimes it was hard to remember that you were, when you could do what you did, when you saw him get hit with a car and shove it away with one hand. 

He was still ridiculously attractive, the kind of attractive that you’d read in romance novels and in classic Roman literature, the kind of beautiful that people wrote poetry about, the kind of ruggedly handsome that made smart girls stupid. 

You were really feeling that last one. Because you were desperately trying to hold on to your dream of being with someone that understood every part of you, but Ben was making it hard.

It wasn’t that the idea of sleeping with him was terrible. It wasn’t. It was far from terrible it was the idea of having sex without feelings that you didn’t like. You didn’t want to sleep with him because you knew that he only saw you as something to be possessed not as an equal or someone he cared about. Soldier Boy only cared about himself, that was apparent.

He’s only interested in you because you haven’t given in. You think to yourself. It's all about the thrill of the chase, nothing else. I'm worth more than that. I'm worth more than one night.

“In fact, I think it’s working on you doll.” Ben leans down towards you so close you can feel his words in the air between your faces, his eyes searching yours as if waiting for you to say no.

That made you pause. Ben didn’t seem to be the type of man who was patient. You’d walked in on him making out with numerous women on the couch back at the apartment he shared with the rest of the team, saw how he took control, saw how he didn’t seem to wait for them to say no or really say anything at all. Not to mention one time when you walked into the shared apartment and could hear Ben with one of his "dates" in his bedroom. Nothing about that seemed patient at all.

But this Ben standing in your kitchen was different. He was almost smiling, dark hair still damp from the shower curling on his forehead, the t-shirt damp around the collar, jeans a dark blue, and the smell of your shampoo fills your senses again all over again. It made you wish for this person all the time. The one that you could see yourself falling in love with, not the racist, sexist, and inappropriate jerk that seemed to dominate his persona at all other parts of the day.

Funny, the only time you’d ever seen Ben like this, was when the two of you were alone- well sometimes- other times he annoyed you without end and made you want to jump out a window. 

But why? Why only around me?

The feeling in your chest grows. It jumps from synapse to synapse, pulses along your skin, buzzes in your blood, tangles through your hair, and radiates through the air like a sound wave. Your eyes drift down to his lips remembering exactly what it was like to kiss him last night. How he seemed to consume you whole, how everything else fell away, how Ben curled himself around you, how he-

Your cell phone rings, breaking through the moment, and making you remember exactly why you didn’t want to give in to Ben and remember the kind of person he was. 

You push him away and pull your cellphone out of your pocket. Butcher's photo and name appear on the screen.

Shit.

"Hey Butch, what's up?" You look away from Ben, forcing yourself to calm your racing heart.

Ben perks up at the mention of Butcher’s name.

“Do you have any idea where Soldier Boy is?”

“Soldier Boy?”

“Seems like our blunt smoking man out of time has vanished. Been trying to text him all bloody morning.”

At least he doesn’t know that Ben is here. That’s good. I’d never hear the end of it if-

Ben snatches the phone from your hand and holds it up to his ear. “What the fuck do you want?”

The softness was gone, his eyes had hardened again, and the spell was broken. Ben was no longer relaxed, his shoulders were tensed and guarded, jaw set.

It didn’t take a genius to know that Ben didn’t like Butcher. Sometimes you wondered why Ben decided to stay.

Probably because the alternative was being frozen like Han Solo next to his son.

When Ben had knocked Homelander out, you hadn’t believed it, and despite Ben’s arguing Butcher wanted to keep Homelander a supe, and just put him on ice. You had no idea why, especially since Butcher had been gunning for him forever, but had the sneakiest suspicion that it was because of Ryan.

But you didn't blame Butcher for that, watching your father get killed in front of you seemed traumatic, not to mention Ryan was still reeling from watching his mother die.

You turn back to your microwave to pull out your bowl of oatmeal with a groan.

Now Butcher’s going to mock me endlessly about going home with Soldier Boy. We didn’t do anything! Well…

Your mind flits back to the searing kiss you shared and to five seconds ago when whatever the hell just happened.

“You want me to meet you in fucking Jersey?” Ben laughs.

You choose not to eavesdrop on the conversation, instead you busy yourself with sprinkling brown sugar onto your breakfast and plucking a few more raspberries from the vines.

“Fine.” Ben almost growls before holding out the phone to you. “He wants to talk to you.”

Of course he does. Maybe I can pretend to lose the signal with a piece of paper or a candy wrapper.

“Hello-“

“You crazy wanker.” Butcher chuckles into the phone. “Guess your night was a little more exciting than mine eh? Oi Hughie, you owe me a tener!” He shouts to Hughie who you can guess is sitting nearby.

“What? He’s with y/n! No way!” You hear Hughie shout back, muffled but there.

Damn it he’s gonna tell Annie. She's going to start sending me pictures of babies photoshopped in supe suits.

“You guys were betting that he was here?!” You shout making eye contact with Ben who only smirks before he busies himself with getting a bowl for his cereal.

“He left about two minutes after you did. Said some bullshit about a smoke break.” Butcher is smiling and you know it. “How was he? Was he as good as all the girls say?" Butcher coos on the other side of the line.

“Nothing happened-“

“Sure it didn’t Cherie!” You hear Frenchie crow. “Hopefully you got to relieve some of that tension no?”

“I hate all of you.” You grumble, and before Butcher can say anything else you hang up the phone and glare at Ben. “This is your fault.”

“What do you mean sweetheart?”

“You just had to follow me home!”

“You shouldn’t have been walking out there alone.”

“I do it all the time!”

“Not anymore.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not going to let you walk around alone in the middle of the night.”

"Like hell. I don't need a babysitter!"

"I think you do-"

"No I don't. In fact why are you still here? Why haven't you left?" You shout, snatching your bowl of oatmeal before moving to the wobbly kitchen table that you smooshed up against a window that looks out onto your fire escape.

"Because I tend to like morning sex. It's a great way to start the day. Thought you'd be interested." Ben winks as he sits across from you, barely fitting in the wooden chair.

Your phone buzzes where it sits on the table beside your bowl. When you flip it over, you see the text from Annie.

Annie: YOU SLEPT WITH SOLDIER BOY?!!!!

You: I'm not going to dignify that with a response.

Annie: That's a yes. TELL ME EVERYTHING!!!

You sigh and shovel a spoonful of oatmeal into your mouth, eyes drifting up to the top of your phone screen focusing on the time.

"SHIT! I'm late for work!" You shout before shoving as much oatmeal as you can into your mouth.

"Work?" Ben looks up from his bowl of cereal confused as you begin to run around the room.

The half-eaten bowl of oatmeal falls into the sink with a resounding crash, Bean's cat food lands haphazardly in his bright green food dish, and you practically run to your tote bag that hangs on a peg by your front door.

"I told you. I work at a plant shop." You glance back at your barren coffee maker mournfully. The thought of trying to get through the day without coffee seemed impossible, not to mention you didn’t have time to grab one on the way to work from your favorite shop just around the corner.

"I thought you were joking."

"No. Some of us have to work for a living." You run your fingers through your hair quickly pulling it back in a loose ponytail.

"You should leave your hair down." Ben says from the table watching you.

"What?"

"It's prettier when it's down."

"I don't have time for your misogynistic comments. Come on let's go."

"What?"

"I'm not going to leave you here in my apartment alone. You don't have a key."

"You could give me yours-"

"HA. No that's not going to happen. Come on." You tug on his muscular arm, trying to get him up out of the chair, but he barely moves.

“You know you could call out of work and we could spend the day in bed.” He smiles, eyes tracing your figure. “I mean you look good baby, but I think you'd look even better naked. Plus, Butcher and the rest of those fuckers already think we slept together so we might as well-“

“Not a chance Gramps. Either get up out of the chair and leave through the door or leave through the window. It’s your choice and I have no qualms with throwing you down to the street. But please don't make me do that because I can't afford a new window."

Ben rolls his eyes, but finally gets up to follow you. He actually tries to open the door for you, but you place your hand on his chest.

“Nah uh uh. Bowl in the sink. I’m not going to clean up after you.”

Ben sighs and mumbles something under his breath that’s lost in Mike’s inhuman screech of “Love on Top.”

Yeah. What a great fucking way to start the day.

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[angel-eyes05]

the scent of you

pairing: fem!hispanic!supervillain!reader x miguel o’hara

summary: after chasing him for so long, you've finally caught him. the infamous spiderman 2099. and now you were going to show him what it was like to be in your grasp

warnings: nsfw, dom!reader, sub!miguel, he's kinda bratty too ngl, bdsm, bondage (miguel is being tied up yet again the poor guy), p in v unprotected, reader's a bit of a psychopath lmao, lots of blood lmao reader has blood manipulation powers so you can imagine how that goes for someone whos constantly compared to a vampire, no use of y/n, no use of miguel's name cause you don't know it lol

word count: 2.0k

notes: im literally writing this at 1 am as a desperate attempt to get my activity back up since no one's reading bite the hand lmao. so of course my first resort is actual porn. also, im aware miguel isn't actually a vampire but i just wanted to give him some vampiric tendencies...just cause lmao its more fun like that. this was fun lets do it again some time lmao

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You’d always enjoy the hunt. In your line of work, one of Kingpin’s subordinates, it was the main thing you did. Catching those he sent you after, knowing you would always finish the job. Yeah sure, most of the time they were nobodies, but damn if you didn’t love the terrified look on their face just before you went for the kill. 

Dea Tacita, the Roman goddess of the dead, was the name you were given by your victims. You earned it due to your silent killing style, just like how she was also nicknamed as “the silent goddess”. But while you might have been silent, your victims certainly were not. Your ability to manipulate others and your own blood led for particularly painful deaths indeed. Either forcefully ripping the ichor from their body, or slowly raising the temperature of it, basically boiling them alive. 

This most certainly was not the life you had planned for yourself, but you’d grown to deal with it. Hell, sometimes you even loved it. You got high off of the final breathes of your victims once they were gone. 

You were especially ecstatic today. You were put on the task by Kingpin a few weeks ago. A strange figure in a blue and red electronic suit had been popping in and out of Alchemax, stealing tech, and making his getaway in a neon orange, hexagonal portal. It sounded intriguing to you. It became even more intriguing after you saw his massive build for yourself during your first encounter. His tall stature, broad shoulders, and incredibly toned physique. It’s no wonder he beat you within your first couple of battles, even with your powers. But you didn’t mind. 

Losing only meant that you got to see him again. And that he got to pin you down to the floor whenever you two were finished throwing fists at each other. But this was strange. You had gone up against him so many times and had lost, again and again and again. But you had gotten word from one of your own subordinates a few hours ago that he’d finally been caught. Why? Was he giving himself up? No way. You had to go see him for yourself. And then after, you would finish the job.

You strutted down the hallways to the containment room where he was supposedly being kept. You even caught yourself fixing strands of your hair and pressing down on your outfit, dressing up for the occasion. When you opened the door, your knees nearly went weak. The man was sitting there, on that chair that was definitely too small for him, unconscious with his head leaning back behind him. Plus, his mask was off, so now you could finally get a glimpse of that beautiful face of his. Sculpted cheekbones, wavy and slicked back brown hair, and slight gray streaks going through his hair. That wasn’t even the best part. The best part was what was around him.

Rope. Black strings of rope tying him to the chair, carving out each and every one of his muscles, put on by your lackeys, almost as if they knew. His beautiful pecs sitting there so pretty, almost calling out to you, and his legs spread wide open due to his unconscious state. You walked fully into the room, shutting and locking the doors behind you. You leaned on the table that sat in front of him, admiring his beauty. Once you were done undressing him with your eyes, you clenched your hand to get his blood flow to start moving faster, slowly waking him up.

“Hey there Tiger,” you said once his hypnotic, crimson red eyes finally fluttered open. He groaned in response. “Where the hell am I?” he asked, his low drowsy voice sending butterflies into your stomach. “Don’t worry, that won’t be a problem for you soon enough,” you responded, getting up from your lean to walk up closer to him. He squirmed around lightly in his bondage. “You’ve been a little thorn in Kingpin’s side for the past couple of weeks, haven’t you now?” “If thorn in his side means protecting the people of this city, then yeah I guess I have,” he said back, a little strained. You walked up behind him, one hand on his shoulder, and the other knitted into his hair, massaging his scalp. His eyes closed, soft sighs leaking from his lips as your fingers intertwined with his hair. “Mhm,” was all you responded with.

A quick whimper escaped him when you abruptly yanked his hair back so he could look you in the eyes. “That means you’ve been causing trouble for me too, Tiger.” His breathing was heavy as he stared up into your eyes. “So why don’t we just take care of this nice and quickly, hm?” You pushed his head back forward. 

“Would you mind elaborating on tha-.” He was quickly cut off with a groan as you attached your mouth to the crook of his neck, pressing warm kisses into it and light sucks. You made your way all along his neck to his collarbones, finding your way to sit on his lap in the meantime. You could feel his already rock hard cock underneath you. So he did plan this, you thought to yourself. You decided to play along into his little game. You separated your lips from his chest, wrapped your hand underneath the ropes, and yanked him up to you. “Your suit’s digital right? So you can control it with your thoughts?” you asked gently. He nodded. “Take it off.”

His facial expression didn’t budge. “Or what, huh?” You smirked. His expression quickly changed though when he felt his body getting hotter and hotter. It changed again, a strained whimper coming from him, when you yanked his hair backwards again. “Take. It. Off.” Next thing you knew, his tan skin was peaking out from where his suit used to be. The suit must have been a thin layer, because his bare cock underneath your ass now felt just as hard, if not harder, than before. 

You smiled at him. “Much better.” You grabbed his face, but instead of doing what he expected, which was to smash your faces together, you leaned in slowly to him, lips just barely grazing, before you pulled away again. You kept doing this, until he eventually started whining, even going as far as to reach his face forward to yours, getting a chuckle out of you. “Ay coño mamita, would you just get it over with already?” he whined. You smiled at him. “Paciencia querido, paciencia. Mal recompensa que más tarde.” You confirmed this with him once you lifted up your ass and dragged one of your hands to his cock, teasing the tip ever so slightly.

Though even that made his hips jerk forward into you. You stood up, leg on each outside of the chair, teasing at both his cock and his lips. His whines were driving you crazy as you edged him on. After getting tired of it all, the man was finally able to get a hold on your lips. Once he smushed them together with yours, hands still tied back to the chair, you didn’t reject it, and went all in. One hand on his cheek, the other at length, you slipped your tongue in between his lips. You quickly pulled away though when you felt a hard bite down on your tongue. You removed your hand from his penis quickly as you inspected your tongue. “¿Qué mierda?” you asked, agitated. “Ay, discúlpame. Pero no pude evitarlo,” he said, almost as if biting you was on instinct. You wiped your now bleeding tongue with your thumb, admiring the maroon liquid that you had grown attached to. You used your power to collect it all up into the air, elongating it into a stream of blood. 

You had noticed though, that the Spider-Man’s gaze was pinned on the the ichor. That’s right. The man was basically a vampire. Driven by an unnatural thirst for blood. It was something pulled right out of a 1930s horror movie. And right now you were tempting him, waving his food in front of his face. “You want it, hm?” His eyes didn’t even move away from it when he nodded. You let out a low chuckle, then released your clutch on it, letting the blood fall onto your lap. Once you see his eyes dart down to your thigh (him even going as far to reach his mouth down to it), you yank his bondage towards you and put a hand back down to his crotch, strongly twisting his balls. 

He grunts and moves his eyes back to your low eyes. “Only good boys get fed. Are you gonna be a good boy for me, Spider-Man?” He didn’t respond, probably out of embarrassment. You then give a cruel squeeze to his balls. “Ok, ok, ok, I will!” he yelped out. “You’ll what?” you teased, hands still squeezing. He sighed. “I’ll be a good boy for you, mommy.” You smiled. “I’m glad you feel that way.”

You connect your lips back to his, and he slips his tongue in almost right away to lick off the rest of your blood from your tongue. You slip off your underwear, and sit down on his cock, using one of your free hands to guide it into you. You both moaned into each other’s mouths as he entered you. You preferred to have teased him for a little longer, but to be honest, you were starting to get a little antsy for him too.

You thrusted, hard, onto his cock, making sure to get his tip onto all your sweet spots. He moved his mouth down your neck and collarbone, leaving sweet kisses and hickeys where his mouth once was. It took everything out of him to not sink his teeth into your neck. He even seems to make his way down to your chest, using the open boob window in your dress to stuff his face into your breasts, almost seeming to get lost in them as he motorboats you. It’s slightly immature, but you were too busy indulging in the ferocity of his cock to care, as he made your pussy his own. 

He eventually moves back up to your mouth. In between kisses, you manage to get out, “Why did you get caught.” “¿Qué quieres decir?” he sighs out. “I mean, I tried, ngh, to beat you. How did they catch you, and n-not me.” He takes a while for his answer, more focused on trying to figure out how to get himself further in you. “Because, I needed to see you again.” “Why?” “Your smell.”

You sighed into his mouth as a question. “You smell like blood. Overpowering. Intoxicating. Casi como un hechizo.” You pull away to look him in the eyes.

“I couldn’t just leave without knowing what your pussy feels like, mi reina.”

You chuckled a little bit. “Eres una puta.” He smirked. “Sólo por ti, mamita.”

You both were finally starting to reach your climaxes. He decided to take the fall and finish first. He let out groans, grunts, and whimpers as he came in your sweet pussy. Once he was finished, you let out your orgasm, wrapping your arms tightly around his waist and moaning into his bare chest for leverage. Once you both finished, you slowly remove yourself from him. You use your fingers to clean up and taste the mess below you by your dripping cunt. Miguel lets his suit come back onto him, his head leaning forward and panting. 

Realizing you can’t let him out, you clench your fist again to slow the movement of his blood, putting him back under. You fix your hair and press down on your outfit. But before leaving the room, you turn back to look at him. He looked so pretty sleeping there. You quickly walked up to him, and planted a deep, soft kiss into his scruffy cheek. 

As you left the room, you thought to yourself. You couldn’t kill him. You couldn’t finish the job. It would’ve been so easy to do it right here right now. You didn't even know his name. There was zero connection between the two of you, other than what just happened. This had never been a problem before. So why was it now?

Why?

-----------------

a/n: im so tired its currently 4 am i need sleep lmao im so tired i have got to stop going to bed at 3-5 am

[anonymousoneshots]

Thing For Me

Roman Reigns x Reader

Rating: 18+

Warnings: Sexual Talk, Swearing, Teasing

You’re backstage at Wrestlemania 39, anxiously waiting for the end result of Roman’s highly-anticipated match against Cody Rhodes. You can’t help but hold your breath every time Roman’s pinned, willing him to kick out and keep fighting. There’s something about Roman in the ring that makes your veins pulse and your heart shudder.

You’re watching the match play out on the small TV in the back room, silently hoping nobody catches you. It was no secret to most of your friends in the back that you had a thing for Roman. You always went out of your way to watch all of his matches and promos, your smile lighting up a room whenever he was victorious. You wouldn’t necessarily call it a crush, not really. You just liked it when he won. You respected him and enjoyed his success. Nothing more. Not a single part of you was in denial either. Right?

You fold your hands together in front of your mouth and lightly bite on your thumb nail, nerves getting the better of you as you can feel the tension from the match in the atmosphere. Cody had Roman positioned for his finishing move, slamming him down in one swift motion. Your heart was hammering. Cody had him back and was going to hit it a second time. This is it. The end of the reign. You place your hands over your mouth and close your eyes, time seeming to slow. You hear a reaction from the crowd and open your eyes expecting to see Roman laid out, but instead you see Solo rolling out of the ring and Cody on the ground. Roman soon hits Cody with a spear and the ref counts to three. “Yes!” you exclaim, jumping in a circle in celebration. You feel adrenaline leaking out of you as Roman holds both belts high in the air, the legendary reign continuing. Your smile is wide and bright as you watch him in wonder, the television picture reflecting in your eyes.

Almost everyone has left the arena for the night, as you’re just finishing up gathering your gear and duffle bag. You slipped back on the dress you had worn into the arena after taking off your ring gear. You didn’t have a match at Wresltemania, but they like everyone backstage to be in gear just in case. It’s pretty quiet as you head out of the locker room, and you’re humming to yourself as you walk down the hall toward the exit and the car waiting for you, heels clicking in the silence.

You slow to a stop as you hear a muffled chuckle coming from one of the backstage rooms. A door is cracked open and you quietly step over to it, peeking to see who’s still here. Roman is leaning against an empty desk, phone to his ear with his back to the door. He’s wearing his signature Jordan’s with gray sweatpants and a Bloodline t-shirt. Your heart catches in your throat. Of course you’ve passed by Roman backstage before, even congratulated him on various wins in the past. But that always happened surrounded by people, and still each time, you were fully aware of him, cheeks flushing and heart racing. This time was no different.

“Alright, man, I’ll be there.” Roman clicks of his phone call and drops it into the pocket of his sweatpants, reaching to pick up his bag and belts off the desk beside him. You’re watching his every move, like it’s one of his matches on TV playing out in front of you. His hair is tied back and you can smell his cologne in the air. He turns around and swings the duffel over his shoulder, then the belts. He looks up and spots you. Quickly you spin away from the opening in the door and start to hustle down the hallway, keeping your head low. You hear the door shut behind you and Roman’s voice as it calls your name.

“[y/n].”

You stop and wince as your heart is running a mile a minute. Anytime you’ve been around Roman it has always been in a group of people. You weren’t even sure he knew your name, until now. You turn on your heel to face him as his long strides reach you fairly quickly. You look up at him with flushed cheeks and a racing heart. He looks down at you and tilts his chin up.

“You catch my match tonight?” He asks, a smirk forming at his lips. Shit, he knows.

“Congratulations,” you muster, now avoiding his gaze.

He’s fully smirking now, and taps on his belts with his left hand. “Didn’t doubt me, did you?” He asks.

“Never,” you exhale, now meeting his eyes, not aware you were holding your breath.

“Good girl.” He gaze trails down your body, the small, tight black dress you have on hugging each of your curves beautifully.

“Tell me, [y/n], did you enjoy watching your Tribal Chief win tonight?” Roman asks, taking a sauntering step closer to you. You instinctively take a step back, feeling intimidated and nervous as all hell.

“It was a good match,” you manage, feeling his prowling gaze drink in the sight of you. Where was this coming from? No way in hell could you possibly pull Roman. Could you? Roman nods and darts his tongue out to wet his lips.

“Word around here is you never miss one of matches. You got a thing for me, [y/n]?”

The world seems to slow and your thoughts turn to mush. You’ve never been asked about this before so bluntly. Not by your friends, not by anyone on the roster, and especially not by Roman himself, the star of all your fantasies. You shift uncomfortably and stare at the ground, words lost at your mouth. Roman chuckles at the way he’s making you squirm, the dominance in him gloating. “You want a ride back to the hotel, [y/n]?” He asks.

—————————————————————————

The silence and tension during the car ride to the hotel is excruciating. Roman is relaxed as ever, casually leaning back against the seat. Your whole body is rich with tension, though, as you sit stiffly and are acutely aware of every breath you take. You don’t dare glance at him, but you feel his eyes on you, watching the rise and fall of your chest, your fingers in your lap nervously twisting your rings. Roman clears his throat and slides over closer to you, causing your heart to contract and your breath to catch.

“Tell me, [y/n], what is it about me that’s making you so tense? Relax, breathe.” He rests his hand on your knee, leaning forward trying to catch your gaze. You finally look at him with wide eyes, sure he can hear your heart pounding. His touch is sending waves through your body, and you instinctively squeeze your legs together. Roman smiles that cocky smile of his, almost like your someone he’s about to destroy. Almost. He removes his hand from your knee and leans back against the seat again, seemingly satisfied that he’s making you sweat. This car ride is dragging on and on, all you want is to be back at the hotel in the safety of your room and bed, far away from wherever this was.

Finally, the car pulls up to your hotel. You quickly reach for the door and step out into the cool air. Roman steps out after you, walking around towards the trunk to get the bags and his belts. You go to take your bag from him, saying thank you, but he pulls away. “No, no, I got you,” another cocky smile playing at the corner of his mouth. You smile at him and head toward the door. Once inside, you stand awkwardly in front of the elevator in silence, watching the floors light up as it heads to you.

“Thanks for the ride, and my bag,” you say, glancing over at him. He simply nods his head as the door opens and you both step inside. You’re preparing yourself for a long ride of awkward silence and tension, as Roman presses the button for the 15th floor.

“You’re very intimidating, you know,” you say. “That’s why I’m tense. You make me nervous.”

Roman chuckles and sets the bags and his belts down. You’re now passing floor 6.

“Is it that I make you nervous because I’m intimidating or because you have that thing for me?” He questions. You bite your lip and ignore the question. He turns towards you and steps closer, you can feel his breath on your ear. “Because what you really want from me is to be destroyed.”

Heat pools in your stomach and you audibly gasp. Before you have time to react further, he spins you toward him and pins you between his arms with your back to the wall. You lustfully search his eyes and want for his touch. “Roman-“ you start, but he roughly places his hand over your mouth and smiles.

“I bet you get all wet watching me, don’t you, [y/n]?” He husks into your ear. You squeeze your legs together in an effort to stop the building ache Roman’s causing. He looks into your eyes with a hunger, which only turns you on more. The elevator dings at it reaches your floor, and just as suddenly as Roman was on you, he’s off, bending to pick up the his bag and belts. He leaves yours on the floor. You’re left leaning against the wall of the elevator, breathing heavily. He steps out and turns towards you, drinking in the mess he’s made of you, a grin forming at his lips.

“Room 1547, if that thing for me turns into an urge you can’t satisfy.”

[soppybitorag]

The Captain as Man, Mirror, and Medals.....

a 🚨Red Lever🚨 meta on The Captain appearing in a mirror (and a cracked one at that) in the opening credits of Ghosts and what that could mean in the context of s5e5 and beyond :-D

What do mirrors symbolise?

Briefly, they outer vs. inner perception; who we are vs. what we let people see/want people to perceive us as. Mirrors Cannot Lie, and thusly expose our reality. Reflections are often said to be a persons True Soul, an idea across many early civilisations. It wasn't reflected light rays hitting your eyeballs, it was you seeing your Soul.

But also, we are 'mirroring' people when we copy them, appearing unoriginal and inauthentic.

Captain as Portrait and Mirror -

Now, ghosts can't see their reflections or be captured on camera/film. We don't see Captain looking *into* the mirror, just what is shown to us: the outer self/controlled perception. Also, the way he is framed makes it look like a portrait, something signifying power, virtue, and importance.

What we *see* is a middle-aged man of supposed stature, with a collection of earned medals (reflected, they'd be the right way round, which they aren't irl).

A soldier.

A Truth, as Mirrors Can't Lie.

Portraits can be twisted, however, such as The Picture of Dorian Gray. In it, Dorian's portrait grows more grotesque because of his sins and vices, whilst retaining his external beauty over many, many years.

Captain, likewise, is forever going to look the age he died, much like how Dorian is forever the age of when he got the portrait made. (Not saying they're similar in personality or really any deeper than that, just thought it note worthy.)

It'd be remiss to forget that in the opening creds, Robin is next to the mirror, flickering a lamp.

He is litterally shedding light on the mirror, implying a deeper meaning/more to be understood about what's there. There's also the fact that the mirror is cracked (cracked? definitely distorted).

Cracked Mirror Symbolism -

Cracked Mirrors can be seen as a form of deception: if distorted they can warp the image presented (even when we expect the truth from them), making things appear closer than they actually are (a common occurance in fairytales, for example), or taller/bigger/wider/fractured.

Some people believe broken mirrors weaken the spirit of a departed person. Oscar Wilde famously used this belief to mark a characters' death in, you guessed it, Dorian Gray.

It's worth noting that Dorian Gray is also the story that led to Wilde's imprisonment for homosexuality.

Cracked Mirrors are notably bad luck in many cultures, too. Romans believed that Gods observed them through mirrors, so breaking them was severing that connection, thusly having the Gods curse you with bad luck.

Ultimately, cracked mirrors present a fractured sense of self, where the inner and the outer are at odds with one another, or there is discontent in one or the other. Perhaps both.

What does this mean for Captain?

Well, we *see* a man of stature/inportance with war medals. Virtuous.

In actuality, the medals were always forever out of his grasp (making things look closer than they are) as he never left Britain, as much as he maybe would have liked to. He stole the medals to deceive the Veterans by façading (being inauthentic/copying/mirroring) as one of them, but bad luck had him put them on clearly wrong to all but him. If he had a mirror, he could've fixed it.

He was most likely one of the lowest ranking people in that room, in a house he once had control over, but no longer did.

Those actions directly led to his death, where he forever is entrapped with and condemned to wear unearned medals.

Of course, he most likely wanted to be perceived as integral/noble by people, but he just wasn't. He thinks himself a coward, wearing a mask, and forever will be. It's no wonder that in his purgatory/button house afterlife, he elects to seek control over how people see him. He's just The Captain.

some extra things I wanna throw in here

Captain died looking into Havers' eyes. He could probably see his own reflection at his end. But at least it was in the eyes of someone who truly knew him and loved him. For him. Told him as much. Because Mirrors Can't Lie.

Also, one way to rid yourself of the bad luck caused by breaking a mirror is, apparently, touching a tombstone with one of the shards and burying it deep down innthe ground where spirits can't find it, at nighttime.

So here are some completely random images.

[rosepetalgold]

i look at you (and i dream)

Summary: Roman tells Logan what he’s thinking about and discovers his dreams might be closer to reality than he’d dared to imagine.

Relationships: Romantic Logince

Warnings: None! Pure domestic fluff!

Word count: 962

Notes: Title inspired by Mikrokosmos by BTS

Read on Ao3 Masterpost

-

“Roman, are you even listening to me?”

Roman blinks, emerging out of the colorful tapestry of his thoughts to find Logan staring at him from where he’s paused chopping vegetables for the dish he’s concocting for dinner, one eyebrow arched in a silent question.

“Sorry, my love,” he says sheepishly. “I just got caught up daydreaming.”

Logan sighs, shaking his head not unkindly as he returns to his cutting board, the slightest upturn of his lips betraying that he mustn’t be too put out by Roman’s lapse of focus. “I suppose it would be too much to ask for your ambitions of fame and grandeur to wait until I was done telling you about my day.”

“Oh, no, I wasn’t thinking about any of that.”

“Work, then?”

“No, not that either.”

“Then what on earth were you daydreaming about?”

“You.”

Logan casts him a sideways glance, clearly baffled, even as his knife doesn’t falter in its steady rhythm. “I’m right here.”

“I know,” Roman breathes, not even trying to keep the wonderment out of his voice at the truth of such a simple statement, still unable to quite believe that this was real, that Logan was here, was choosing him, was his. “But I look at you and I just can’t help but dream.”

But his words only cause the puzzlement furrowing Logan’s brow to deepen. “I don’t understand. What could you possibly be dreaming about?”

Roman laughs under his breath, answers dancing over one another in his mind like so many bits of dandelion fluff caught in a breeze, too many to ever count. Where to even begin?

“Everything.”

He shifts closer, gently finessing the knife from Logan’s grip and laying it on the counter before taking his lover’s hands in his own.

“I dream about waking up next to you every morning and watching the sunset next to you every night. I dream about seeing you land your dream job and finally being recognized for that endlessly brilliant mind of yours. I dream about buying a house together out in the country like you want and us making it our own. I dream about surprising you with homegrown roses on idyllic summer mornings and slow dancing in the dark with you on starlit winter nights. I dream about all the days I’ll come home to you and all the ways I’ll fall even deeper in love with you and all the countless quiet moments I’ll get to just be by your side as we grow old and gray.” He laces their fingers together, marveling inwardly at how readily Logan reciprocates the touch, palms warm and steady against his own. “I dream of us, of the life we’ll lead, of the future we have together.”

Logan only stares at him for a long moment, gaze searching his own as a hint of pink begins to tinge his cheeks, and Roman can’t help but smile softly at the sight, leaning in to press a chaste kiss to the bloom of color.

“You really think about all that?” Logan’s voice is slightly choked, words scarcely more than a whisper, and Roman draws back, a twinge of worry flickering to life in his stomach, but Logan’s grip tightens around his, keeping him from retreating.

“Of course I do. You’re it for me, Logan; why would I ever dream about anything else?”

Logan doesn’t even bother replying, simply tugs one hand free from Roman’s fingers, wraps it around the back of his neck, and pulls him into an ardent kiss.

Logan had never been as much of one for words as Roman was, had always tended to struggle a bit to vocalize his deepest feelings, but Roman doesn’t need a long-winded reply, not when the press of the other man’s body against his is all the answer he needs.

Logan, though, apparently isn’t content to let his reaction do all the talking for him.

“I know that not many people would call me a dreamer,” he says as he pulls back, gaze so open and vulnerable in the golden rays of the late afternoon light that Roman’s heart squeezes in his chest. “But I want that too. That future. The two of us. You.”

“It’s ours,” Roman vows. “And I’m yours.”

They meet in the middle this time, an intoxicating press of lips that tastes of hopes and dreams and happy endings, and oh nevermind all his indulgent imaginings about what might be, this is all Roman could ever want.

If this is his reward for daydreaming, he really needs to do it more often.

Entirely too soon Logan is drawing back again, rosiness now fully blossomed across his cheekbones.

“We don’t have to have a house in the country,” he says as if his brain has just caught up to Roman’s earlier words, the delay in processing entirely more endearing than it should be. “I know you like the city.”

Roman shrugs, sure the expression on his face can only be described as utterly besotted as his hands find a home in the familiar curve of Logan’s waist, pure affection melting through every inch of his body. “I can compromise as long as there’s no bears.”

Logan chuckles, low and bemused.

“No bears,” he promises, and with the way his eyes are sparkling with amusement, what else is Roman supposed to do but kiss him again?

“Love you,” Logan murmurs against his lips, the words still enough even after all this time to send butterflies dancing through Roman’s stomach like it’s the first he’s ever heard them. “I love you so much.”

“Love you too,” he whispers, and here, with Logan in his arms, present and future inseparable from each other for one breathlessly suspended moment, he can’t dream to ask for anything more.

-

Taglist (let me know if you’d like to be added or removed!): @darth-does-stuff

[delimeful]

a still-glowing ember (2)

warnings: g/t, remus pov-typical violence/gore/innuendo, ignoring one's needs/magical burnout, self destructive behavior, hypothermia, death mention

-

If Remus didn’t find his brother soon, he was going to burn this stupid forest to the ground.

He decidedly ignored the way the night’s cold was seeping into him, frost biting deep enough that he probably couldn’t even conjure a spark, let alone a flame.

That wouldn’t stop him. He’d figure out how to start a fire the human way if that was what it took.

(And afterward, if Roman’s spark had already extinguished by the time he found him– he would find him– Remus would figure out how to burn to death the human way, too.)

They’d never be able to come back to this valley, anyhow. Remus had snatched three whole territory markers from a shifter as he headed north, using the decision-making process that had gotten him labeled ‘a danger to himself and others’ at his first colony.

What could he say? Roman was the closest thing he had to impulse control.

He’d considered going back for another one– the temperature drop as the sun set was killer, literally– but stealing foxfire was the sort of thing one couldn’t repeat without getting gleefully disemboweled by a pissed-off fox shifter, and who would track down Roman then?

Already planning exactly how he’d make fun of his brother for losing to a measly storm, Remus flapped his wings sharply, sending another wave of warmth through them and ignoring the way the cold pit in his chest deepened a bit more.

It didn’t matter. He’d always wondered what it would feel like to gutter down to ashes, anyhow.

The world’s most torchable forest continued to look the same no matter how far he flew, all thick-trunked trees and mossy undergrowth that he’d normally be eager to taste test. There was barely anything resembling a breeze, so the murmur of rustling leaves had been completely overtaken by the hum of insects and distant calls of night birds.

The lack of wind was just another stroke of bad luck. Normally, without any drafts to coast on, sprites would find a perch to occupy. He couldn’t glide for long, meaning that his half-frozen wings were working twice as hard to keep him in the air.

He had to keep moving. Roman was out there somewhere, perched in one of these identical trees or flitting from branch to branch in his own search. If he actually cared that Remus was missing, that was. Remus’s brain was beginning to suggest otherwise.

Maybe he’s glad to have the chance to get away from you, his mind offered. You should hunt him down and break his wings into little frozen splinters.

There was a heavy thud and rustle nearby, and Remus veered towards it, because investigating things that could potentially murder him sounded way better than listening to the squishy gray matter in his skull.

The source of the commotion turned out to be a sizable bear, shuffling its way down the trunk of a large tree. Remus circled around the scene on quiet wings, taking in the practiced movements of the beast.

Oh yeah, that could definitely murder me, he thought, successfully sidetracked. In a single hit, even. One of those paws probably weighed as much as three of him.

It was a moon bear, he was pretty sure, just barely able to see the telltale sliver of cream fur on its chest in the dark of the night. Not one of the more carnivorous species, boo.

No idea what it had been doing up there, but he didn’t have time to pursue the distraction any further.

With all the turning, his glide had shifted to more of a controlled fall, and he flapped his wings a few times, ignoring the way the bear’s attention shifted towards his direction. The flaps were frustratingly weak, slowed by encroaching icy numbness, and he forced another surge of warmth through them.

His spark pulsed painfully, and in the next moment, his vision blacked out entirely.

His wings flailed out to try and brake automatically, but vertigo had struck like a viper, and he could hardly tell up from down. There was wind in his ears now, which probably meant that he was currently hurtling towards a very splattery end.

He’d always said he wanted to go out screaming and covered in someone else’s blood, but he couldn’t even draw breath to yell, his whole body struggling to right itself amidst the pain of nearly burning himself out.

There was a sudden impact against one wing, hard but thin– a branch? Any semblance of direction vanished as he tumbled head over heels through what felt like an endless stretch of bush. Each stinging lash hurt, but by the time he hit the ground, his momentum had slowed enough to make the impact totally agonizing instead of extremely fatal.

He lay there for a few long moments, stunned or possibly paralyzed. He couldn’t really tell if the snapping sounds had been the branches around him or all of his bones. Slowly, his vision began to fade back in, each blink bringing a new arrangement of black spots.

Distantly, he finally registered an odd sound, one that was gradually growing closer.

Snuffling.

Oh, right. The bear.

Moon bears weren’t particularly active carnivores, but their primary meat intake was carrion. He remembered because he’d thought it was extremely funny, and also an excellent fact to gross Roman out with.

Remus attempted to twitch a wing, and failed miserably. His whole body felt like it had been tenderized into a paste.

… He was pretty sure he counted as carrion, at this point.

Getting eaten by a bear was a cooler death than hitting the ground because he forgot how to fly, at least.

The rustling of leaves intensified as something began pushing past the bush’s branches, presumably searching for him.

There was the sour taste of misery on the back of his tongue, knowing that if Roman was still alive out there somewhere, Remus had abandoned him with not even a corpse left behind. It was his own fault, he thought with a pang of aimless violent fury. If he’d been smarter or quicker or more reserved about his search, he wouldn’t be in this mess.

He was distracted from the impulse to bite down on his own arm– half to vent his anger and half because if something was going to eat him, he wanted the first bite– by the sensation of something soft and warm grazing him.

It was like his body remembered it was freezing all at once. He leaned against the warmth despite himself, his breath catching as a new wave of involuntary shivering agitated every bruise and bump he had, and struggled to think past the sensation.

The thing grabbing him wasn’t a bear mouth, he realized, mildly disgruntled. There were no teeth. Only a bunch of flexible, appendage-like protrusions poking through the brush and curling around him.

The mystery of it all was the only thing keeping his mind off his shrieking nervous system as his battered frame was steadily pried free from the bush’s tangled grasp. He stared down at the fleshy lump settled across his chest like a band and abruptly realized he was looking at a fingernail.

A hand. Had a human somehow grabbed him? Remus blinked, dizzily sinking into the warmth of it. Maybe they could help him with the forest fire. He’d been planning to set something on fire human-style, hadn’t he?

“Try to stay awake. Your body temperature is dangerously low,” a low, measured voice informed him.

Remus hadn’t even realized he’d closed his eyes until he opened them to the sight of a considerably larger face looking down at him. Not human after all, going by those fangs and the round, fuzzy black ears atop the stranger’s head. Where had he seen those ears before…?

The stranger had continued talking, not that Remus had caught any of it, and was now levering his arm up between two fingers and pressing on it. It felt gentle, but sensations could be deceiving in the cold, so it was totally possible he was about to watch his humerus get snapped in two. The stranger was staring at him expectantly now, as though a question had been asked.

Remus didn’t have an answer, but having finally figured out just what kind of shifter was holding him, he did have something to say. Inhaling past his bruised ribs, he tilted his head back against the palm he was resting on to make eye contact.

“You’re beary hot,” he managed, and with his piece said, proceeded to immediately pass out.

–

Remus woke up to fur in his mouth.

“Pfah,” he said, coherently.

The fur underneath him twitched, everything swaying slightly as though wherever he was laying wasn’t exactly solid ground. He was also sweltering, which was a great state for him to be in if he didn’t want his spark to go out from overstress. Really though, how much fur did one have to inhale to start coughing up hairballs?

There was a careful oversized breath, and then the surface below him abruptly shifted to something much flatter and smoother. Fabric, Remus realized, his cheek pressed against distinct woven threads.

“Hello,” a voice rumbled through him, large and close. “You’re on top of me. Please don’t be alarmed.”

Remus waggled his eyebrows blearily, still too disoriented to even contemplate being alarmed. Besides, he didn’t startle easily. He was normally the one alarming.

“Did you at least buy me dinner first?” he asked, his delivery weakened by the instant pain that blossomed in his chest. “Ow.”

“My apologies,” the voice replied. “I was unable to reduce the bruising of your ribs, since applying ice would have only worsened your condition. I did not prepare any dinner, because you were unconscious.”

Either this guy had the best deadpan in the business, or the innuendo had completely flown over his head. Remus was delighted regardless.

He struggled to push himself upright, his entire body protesting severely, and a giant hand lifted into his line of sight, hurriedly curving around him as a supportive measure. The feeling was familiar, and Remus went rigid as he recalled exactly how he’d gotten here.

“Where are we?” he asked, all traces of his lackadaisical attitude gone.

If the stranger was surprised by his sudden intensity, he didn’t show it. “My home. It’s a cave near the northwestern edge of the valley, and I brought you here after seeing–”

“You motherfucker,” Remus swore, and twisted to bite down on the stranger’s hand.

The fingers contracted briefly, but surprisingly enough, didn’t collapse down to instinctively crush him.

“Ow.” The stranger’s voice was insultingly monotone about the attack, which admittedly hadn’t even broken skin. “Stop that. There’s no need, I don’t intend you any harm.”

Seeing that his best efforts weren’t cutting it, Remus unlatched his jaw and craned his neck to scowl up at them. “Forget harm! You kidnapped me while I was in the middle of something!”

“Yes,” they replied dryly, “dying. I noticed.”

“How long has it been?” Remus asked, shoving to his hands and knees. “Is it still night?”

There were two hands hovering anxiously over him, now. “Not long has passed. There are still several hours until dawn breaks. Why?”

“Because I’ve got a featherbrain brother to find,” he said, “so sorry to smash-and-dash, stranger, but you’ll have to abduct me to your cave against my will another time.”

The stranger went quiet for a long moment, during which Remus painstakingly managed to push himself up to a standing position, though his wings were limply dragging behind him.

He couldn’t really see very far before his vision went blurry, so he wasn’t sure entirely where the exit was, but he could figure it out. It was a cave, after all: either he’d find the opening or he’d walk endlessly deeper and deeper into the earth like a dumbass.

Before he could successfully balance well enough to take a step towards one of those destinations, though, a shadow fell over him.

“My name is Logan,” the shifter spoke up, “and I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.”

As easily as a breeze would pick up a leaf, Logan scooped Remus off his feet back into his cupped palm.

“Nobody ‘lets’ me do anything!” Remus snapped back, thrashing as best he could against the grip. Seeing as he currently had the strength of a newborn kitten, it didn’t do much. “Come on, you can eat my corpse later, I’ve got time-sensitive shit to do!”

The comment earned him a minor twitch. “I have no desire to eat your corpse. That would defeat the entire purpose of this venture, which is to prevent you from becoming a corpse in the first place.”

“My corpse, my business!” It was frustrating to know that if they had met in normal circumstances, Logan was exactly the sort of stiff-backed repressed nerd that Remus would have delighted in teasing. Almost as frustrating as the fact that the dork wouldn’t let him go!

With a huff, Remus gave up on avoiding agitating his wounds and threw himself into struggling with no care for bodily harm.

“Listen to me,” Logan tried, sounding slightly more harried. “Your internal temperature is only barely beginning to recover. If you expose yourself to the frigid weather outside for any longer–!”

“Oh, I’ll expose myself alright,” Remus snarled, because what was the point of nonsensical threats if they couldn’t also be saucy? “Roman is out there in that weather!”

“And you’ll be no help to him if you choose to freeze to death out of simple, ignorant stubbornness!” Logan literally growled, the noise vibrating through Remus and lingering in the back of the shifter’s chest. “I will help you search once you’ve stabilized, but until then, you are at my mercy.”

Remus stared up at him, in utter disbelief that someone could make playing nursemaid to a sprite sound so threatening.

Logan’s expression softened, but his grip remained firm. “I refuse to sit by and watch such foolishness. I won’t be made to explain it to your brother.”

Maybe it was the way his words assumed Roman’s survival after Remus had spent the whole night imagining the worst, or maybe Remus was just exhausted enough for a rational argument to have an effect on him for once.

Either way, he clearly wasn’t winning this fight. He let his body flop limply against Logan’s hand with no little amount of petulance.

“If you don’t help me search, I’ll learn how to perform surgery on giants just so I can fill your organs with flesh-eating wasps.”

Logan took the concession for what it was, and only raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t it be simpler to lock me in a room with the wasps? My flesh would be eaten either way, right?”

It was the perfect question to distract himself with. Remus launched into a heated defense of the differences between external versus internal flesh consumption as torture methods, barely noticing as Logan carefully moved his limp wings back into a more comfortable resting position.

The shifter kept asking questions as he cupped his hand against his chest, creating a cushion of warmth on all sides. Remus kept talking even as drowsiness began to set in, a sprite cradled up against the heartbeat of a bear shifter. Heh. He had always wanted to cuddle something that could maul him.

Remus knew the warmth rekindling in his chest was his spark. Still, it felt a little like hope, too.

�� Blech, Roman had been rubbing off on him.

He’d have to return the favor once they were reunited.

[bill-skarsgalactic]

A/N: So, it's been a while since I've written anything, but I've had this concept rattling around in my brain for a few years and figured there's no time like the present to jump back into writing and posting regularly. If you've been tagged in this it's because a couple of you expressed interest in a previous post of mine - you're not obligated to read it (obviously) but if you do, your feedback would be appreciated. As I said before, it's been a while since I've written anything, so keep in mind I'm a little rusty. Apologies if the first part is a bit bland, I'm mainly just setting up the world and the characters.

P.S: If you interacted with my last post but weren't tagged, its simply because Tumblr wouldn't let me tag you :(

Description: Searching for a fresh start in the small beach town of Hemlock Cove, a young nurse takes a job caring for the recently paralyzed and exceptionally bitter Roman Godfrey.

(This takes place after the events of Hemlock Grove season 3, except Roman did not die and was instead paralyzed after his altercation with Peter. I'm not going to touch on much of the Hemlock Grove storyline and will instead be focusing on making this a standalone story)

Pairing: Roman Godfrey x OFC

Warnings: None for this part, but will update as the story progresses.

P A R T I

Hemlock Cove was meant to be a fresh start, a new life in a quaint sea-side town seemed like the perfect remedy to an aching head and a bitter heart.

I naively hoped the saline sea air would cleanse my hidden wounds, disinfect them until the scars healed pink and became nothing more than memories wrapped in scar tissue.

However, as I stood at the edge of the beach watching the black waves roll violently beneath the murky clouds, pregnant with the promise of rain, nothing about the briny ocean breeze felt healing. The air felt thick, weighed down and tasted acrid on my tongue as I inhaled deeply. I swallowed against the offending taste and cleared my throat, willing away the nausea that had accompanied it, before turning my back on the mercurial sea.

Weeks prior when I had conjured up images of what I imagined my new home to look like, I'd expected something vastly different to the gloomy wasteland that greeted me now. A quick Google search had described Hemlock Cove as a small, sea-side town, its cobbled main road dotted with colorful ice cream shops, humble beachwear boutiques and charming vintage stores, however, as I quietly surveyed my surroundings, it was not quite the fairytale beach town I had been promised. As it stood, Hemlock Cove was merely a carcass of what it must have once been, a ghost town filtered in gray-scale with an underlying tone of despair on its breath. If the vibrant ice cream shops and vintage stores filled to the brim with the nick-knacks of yesteryear had ever existed, they were replaced now with drab, sun-faded replicas of their former selves, their contents barely visible behind foggy, glass storefronts. Looking at it now, it was a wonder how the town managed to stay afloat.

A low rumble of distant thunder suddenly pulled me from my thoughts, and I cast a wary look over my shoulder at the looming, gray clouds on the horizon.

Time to go. A storm was approaching and I had no intention of being caught in it.

With my mood as damp as the impending weather, I adjusted the strap of my duffel bag on my shoulder and began the trek up the cobbled street towards number eighty-one Foxglove Lane.

As I trudged up the hill towards my destination, the town of Hemlock Cove appeared to be seeking my forgiveness. As though ashamed of its first impression, the formerly dreary facade of the town below began to slowly give way to lush greenery and between the beach cottages and holiday homes, tufts of brightly colored wildflowers sprung up, their stems waving gently in the breeze. The distant crash of the ocean was muffled now, obscured by evergreens and the ocean itself was now only visible in gaps between the branches and leaves that lined the road. Further up the hill, the more modest cottages became few and far between, suddenly replaced by more modern, stately homes that looked like they'd be better suited to the upper suburb of neighboring Hemlock Grove, here they just looked out of place.

Stopping to stare at one particular monstrosity, my brow creased as I took in the frankly odd design choices. While most of the houses in Hemlock Cove opted for more classic earth-tones and rustic stone walls, this one was painted a deep shade of charcoal. Everything about it was a grotesque display of modern hubris, all harsh lines and sharp angles, not even the kiss of natural, black walnut finishes were enough to save the home from looking alien amongst its counterparts. I couldn't help but roll my eyes, chuckling at the thought of the field day a psychologist might have with the eyesore before me, but my chuckle was cut short as my eyes landed on the metallic, black numbers fixed to the wall beside the front door: eighty-one. Eighty-one Foxglove Lane to be exact, my new home for the foreseeable future.

When I'd first scoped out nursing jobs in Hemlock Cove, the owner of eighty-one Foxglove Lane was the only one that came up, and while details of his condition were vague at best, the job listing described the client as a 27-year-old male, who had been paralyzed six months prior. The position itself required someone with nursing experience, who could stay on the property and see to the client's needs, as well as handle day-to-day chores - a relatively simple task considering food and accommodation came tacked onto a relatively decent salary. However, other than what had been detailed in the job listing, I knew little to nothing about my client... other than his inclination to have his home scream of its own spectacular opulence.

As if only to impress on me the wealth of my new employer, a large, black Mercedes Benz minivan say at the end of the stone driveway, which I skirted around gingerly, careful not to mar the pristine paint job as I made my way towards the path leading to the front door.

Swallowing a new set of nerves that had made their home in my throat, I gripped the strap of my duffel with one hand and rapped succinctly on the door with my other hand, hoping my knock would sound more confident than I felt.

Silence followed for what felt like an eternity, there was no jingle of keys in the lock of shuffling from beyond the threshold, just the crash of waves beyond the tree line and the occasional chirp of a sandpiper. Just as I was considering knocking again, a voice from inside stopped me before I could even raise my hand.

"Come around the side. Sliding door's unlocked."

The voice was that of a young man, I assumed my client, but it was neither friendly nor welcoming, in fact "irritated" was the first word that sprung to mind, and the misanthropic timbre of his voice turned my stomach to knots in its wake.

Unsure of the appropriate response, I settled for a shaky "Uh, th-thank you!", as my eyes wandered up the side of the house, my irises mapping a mental path to where I assumed the sliding door might be. After only a short amount of bush-whacking my calculations turned out to be correct, as I emerged from the foliage and found myself at the foot of a small set of steps leading to a wooden deck that overlooked the beach.

The view from the deck was magnificent and the house stood no further than 50 feet from the beach itself. Standing on that deck overlooking the vast expanse of ocean, the water churning beneath the ever darkening sky, it was hard not to feel like Poseidon himself at the helm of his war ship.

I could have stood on that deck for hours watching the waves crash and churn, but I was hesitant to annoy my client any more than he already seemed to be, so I turned and made my way over to the sliding door, easing it open gently as I reached it.

The curtains were drawn across four of the six glass doors, leaving only a small gap for me to enter through, and as I did, I stepped through into what appeared to be an open-plan living room.

Although I could not fathom why anyone would be inclined to rob themselves of the spectacular view just beyond the glass doors, I couldn't deny the living room was cozy. A small banker's lamp in the corner of the room enveloped the stony, suede couches and raw wood furnishings in a warm, orange glow, giving the room a homely feel. Most modern homes felt cold and unlived-in, but not this one. After a five-hour-long bus journey and an uphill climb, my aching body longed to curl up amongst the scatter cushions and thick, woolen throws that adorned the couch, and fall into a sleep as deep as the murky waters of Hemlock Cove.

A soft, electrical whirring suddenly disturbed the silence of the living room, and I looked up just in time to see a figure appear in the doorway to my right.

Despite the half-light cast from the lamp in the living room, the man in the doorway was somewhat visible to me. In fact, the shadows cast by the small banker's lamp only aided in highlighting his perfectly straight nose and high cheekbones. His thick, brown hair had been pushed back from his brow in a way that looked effortless, as though he'd haphazardly run his hands through it, only for it to settle perfectly. I'd have dared to call him handsome were it not for the look of absolute disdain on his face as he regarded me.

I shuffled uncomfortably before speaking.

"Uh- hi, I'm Faryn Freeman, we-"

"I know who you are," he cut in harshly.

His wheelchair whirred to life again and he backed out of the doorway, leaving me alone in the living room once more.

I guess he wanted me to follow him, so I did just that. Weaving between the couch and the coffee table, I cut across the lounge and towards the room he had disappeared into.

When I stepped inside, I realized we were in what appeared to be his study, and my client was now sitting behind a large, ornate desk, pouring over a pile of official looking papers, a thick silver pen clutched between his slender fingers.

I lingered awkwardly in the threshold, the strap of my duffel bag growing teeth and biting into my shoulder, as I waited for him to acknowledge me. When he finally did, he didn't bother to look up, his long dark lashes fluttered only slightly as he jerked his pen towards a manila folder perched on the corner of his desk.

"Everything you need to know is in the file, your room is upstairs to the left," he remarked clinically, as he scribbled something indiscernable in the margins of the document in front of him.

I charged forward to retrieve the folder, stumbling slightly as my foot caught the upturned corner of the Persian rug. I cursed myself internally, embarrassed by my behavior. I was no longer the shrinking violet I had been growing up, and even in college, I was a professional, a nurse, over-qualified for the job I'd just undertaken, with years of experience working with men who thought they new more than I did, so why in God's name was I allowing this man and his bad attitude to throw me like this?

The feminist in me begged to put him in his place, but more than that I wanted to be done with this awkward interaction and retreat to my quarters where I could unpack and decompress. A lot had happened in a short space of time and I needed a moment to process it all, so if my new boss had no intention of getting acquainted, then I was more than happy to take the high road and seize a few moments of alone time.

"Well, thanks for this," I smiled politely, pressing the manila folder to my chest, "I'll make sure to familiarize myself with all of this," I assured him, giving the folder an emphatic tap with my index finger.

Again, he didn't look up, it was as if I hadn't spoken, and for a moment, I wondered if he had even heard me. Pursing my lips, I began to slowly back out of the room.

"Okay... well, I'll just head upstairs then," I explained, a little louder this time in case he was hard of hearing, "If you need anything-"

"I'll call," he interrupted, punctuating his statement with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Resisting the urge to bolt from the room, away from my new housemate and the dour energy that hung over him like a storm cloud, I turned fully and exited the study at a leisurely pace until I was out of his line of sight.

The stairs were directly to the right of the study and I took them two at a time, my duffel swinging precariously behind me until I reached the landing.

Unlike the lower level of the house the second floor was lighter, the walls were painted a soft, dove gray and the floor was covered in plush, cream carpeting. Despite the gloomy weather brewing outside, a large skylight above my head illuminated the landing giving it an airy feel that wasn't present downstairs.

I drew what felt like the first real breath of air I'd taken in hours and my lungs filled with the scent of wood polish and carpet shampoo.

At the top of the landing to my right was a dark, wooden door and directly across from where I stood was a small, guest bathroom and from there the hallway snaked to the left. Surely my bedroom was down there.

As I walked, I noticed there were no photos on the walls, no family portraits to liven up the stark landing, only grim, moody artwork. A large floor-to-ceiling oil painting of a snake arched in an almost perfect sphere, its mouth agape as though readying itself to consume its own tail, sat opposite the only other door on the landing: my bedroom.

I shivered involuntarily, my lip curled in distaste and turned away from the offending art piece, opening the door to my bedroom.

Upon stepping inside, I was pleased to see that my client's peculiar art choices did not extend to his guest bedroom. The walls were blank aside from a large mirror, and the room itself consisted of a vanity, a double bed and a sage green armchair in the corner of the room. Ultimately, the room seemed as though it had never been touched.

Grateful to be rid of my luggage, I unceremoniously dumped my duffel at the foot of the bed and flopped down atop the covers, the manila folder still clutched to my chest. Now that I had a few moments to myself, I figured it was about time I found out a little more about my client.

Tag list: @alphabetbill @dani-is-a-princess @rumanceksghost @marvelnatural4life @ambeauty @rosesandthorns @exo-kai15 @angryhippie @perfectlilwitch @4sta @madlilafromwonderland @winterrrsun @manicpixiedreamguurl @spice-honey @batesaccomplice @naturalblondekiller88 @jj-lynn21 @narcobarbiesims @mountainousdinosaur @morbiditty @princehattric @kallikvolturisblog @nutinanutshell @brown-eyedblues @myheartwillgoon2022 @livingonthehems @temporarilylivin @culpers @sophieskarsgard @scuba-seamus @bbyskars

[logically-asexual]

I wanted to be seen

summary:

Superheroes AU. Roman, Patton and Virgil are a team of good guys who fight against Evil (Janus and Remus). They get Logan to work for them with like hacking and getting important information from the villains. But Janus tries to convince Logan that he deserves better.

Read on AO3

Part 2

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word count: 2,009

When Logan woke up, golden light was illuminating the room through soft white curtains. He wasn’t used to waking when the sun was already up and he became even more disoriented when he didn’t recognize the small bedroom he was in.

It was simple, with a single bed, a clear desk, and a dresser, presumably empty. He stayed motionless for a minute as he tried to piece together where he was now and why.

He remembered meeting Deceit and being handcuffed by him. He remembered trying to escape, but he didn’t remember being successful. He remembered being carried and then sitting in the backseat of a car.

Finally, it all clicked.

They left him. They never came back for him. He made a bet with Deceit and Logan lost it because they left him. Now he was kidnapped somewhere and had no idea what Deceit would do with him.

A commonly known fact about this villain was that he was good at scheming, and always made sure no one would be around to witness his actions. That meant nobody knew anything about him other than rumors about his appearance, which originated from cryptic pictures some people claimed to have caught. Though it was a very similar situation as with UFO’s. People would photograph anyone wearing a bowler hat and claim it was Deceit. Nobody actually knew the truth.

If that was the case… And Logan had met this man face to face… What would happen to him? Would he be killed for knowing too much? Would he be kept captive forever? Would his memories be erased? No, that was impossible. Logan’s mind was spiraling. He needed to come back to reality.

As he began sitting up, someone barged into his room.

It was a man dressed in an outfit that Logan wouldn’t know how to begin describing. The puffy sleeves, high neck and flares at the hem of the shirt and ends of the sleeves reminded him of medieval nobility. Most of the fabric was black, with some bright green accents, like the sash, and covered in glitter.

The man wore black pants and high boots. His eyes were a bright red and he had purple eyeshadow around them, making him look ill. However, the crazed look in his eyes and the energy with which he entered suggested otherwise.

“Baby Techie! Good morning!” He yelled. “Are you ready for your adventure?”

“What?” He replied tiredly.

“I’m taking you to the office! Boss’s orders. We’d thought you’d be up by now.” He looked downwards at Logan’s body still half under the covers.

Logan realized at that moment that he was in his underwear. He felt his face heat in embarrassment, which the other man must have seen because he explained:

“Oh, we burned your clothes. They were disgusting. There’s new ones in there.” He pointed to the dresser. “Put them on if you want to and I’ll see you outside!”

He slammed the door closed and left Logan back in silence.

They… took his clothes off? While he slept? And then burned them? What was he doing here again?

He stood and went to the dresser. There he found several new sets of clothes. First, there was a horrifying blue and orange jester costume. He carefully put it aside, hoping someone had made a mistake when putting it there. Then, another costume, but this was a gray mouse onesie. Logan wondered if this was some kind of joke, or a nightmare.

After some digging, he found simple black pants and a silver gray button up shirt. He put them on quickly, before walking out of the room.

He met the man in green again on the other side of the door, who pouted upon seeing Logan’s choice of clothing.

”Nooo! Why so boring?” He exclaimed.

Logan paid him no mind, and followed as they began walking along the hallway. It was wide, with identical doors to one side and framed pieces of art on the opposite wall. All the paintings included a variety of snakes, dark forests, or close-up eyes. The interior design seemed otherwise minimalist, with all walls painted a light gray and the floors made of marble. The frames of the paintings called one’s attention for their striking golden color. Logan wondered if they were made of real gold.

“My name is Remus, by the way. But you can call me Duke, or Dookie, or Daddy, or anything you want, I’m open minded,” the man said with a wink.

“Logan,” he replied.

Remus proceeded to talk Logan’s ears off with gruesome descriptions of how much he hated Logan’s team –or ex-team, he guessed– of superheroes and what he would do to them if he was allowed.

How had Logan never heard of this guy before? If he worked with Deceit maybe he was just as good as him at covering his footprints. It was also true that Logan only researched what Prince asked him to, maybe Prince had only heard about Deceit and not this partner of his.

They made it to a white stairway with golden railings, walked down and then turned to walk into a small study.

In contrast to the modern design of what –Logan assumed– was Deceit’s mansion, the study looked like it was pulled out from an old detective movie. The antique wooden furniture and the smell of cigarette smoke and coffee made Logan feel like he was in a completely different place and time. Deceit, dressed in an onyx-colored shirt, a vest, dress pants, the bowler hat and gloves, looked like he had come out of one of those movies himself.

Everything seemed too clean. Maybe they wouldn’t kill him yet. Or at least his death wouldn’t involve pouring blood over the carpet. Deceit doesn’t seem to be the kind of person to enjoy having bloodstains. Remus, on the other hand…

Logan tried to stop his mind from reeling and his body from shaking. He would spend his last minutes with dignity.

Deceit dismissed Remus with a subtle rise of an eyebrow, which Logan found quite impressive. Once they were alone and the door was closed, he extended a hand towards a chair in front of his desk. Logan sat down slowly.

Deceit sat across from him. He rested his chin on the back of his hand, looking Logan in the eye.

“So here’s the thing, Logic–”

Logan tilted his head at the name, but stayed quiet.

The villain laid a few papers on the desk. “—you’re going to fact-check all this information for me with the secrets you know about Prince and in a few hours I’ll send Remus to you with more instructions. He will take you now to your work desk.” He signaled for Logan to step out.

His eyes widened. “Wait. What?” he stuttered.

Deceit didn’t grant him any more words as Logan evaluated what had just been said. They wanted him to… work? Well… That meant he would at least be of some use before he died. Should he really be thankful for that? No, that was nonsense. Deceit was toying with him. He needed to get away of this place as soon as possible.

He stood. “What makes you think I’m just going to work for you?”

Deceit stared at him emotionless. “Whatever do you mean, darling?”

Logan blinked. “I’m not just going to follow your orders! This is kidnapping! And you’re a villain! I— I am going to get out of here.” He turned to leave, but was stopped by Deceit speaking again.

“And where are you planning to go?”

“I—“ His hand hesitated over the door knob. “It doesn’t matter. Away.”

Of course Logan was scared of being alone. He didn’t think any of Prince’s enemies would know what he looked like but in the case that they did he was defenseless. He was also scared of what would happen to him here. At least out there there was some likelihood he would never be found, while here he was right in the hands of one of the superheroes’ greatest rivals.

Deceit’s hand pushed the door, even if Logan hadn’t tried to open it yet. “May I remind you that we had a deal, my mouse?” the man spoke from behind him. “You belong to me now.”

“That—“ Logan stuttered, refusing to turn around, “That doesn’t mean anything.”

Deceit turned downwards in disappointment, “And here I thought I had finally helped you see the truth.” After a pause, he withdrew his hand from the door and used it to hold Logan’s. “Very well, then. You may go, but first I want to show you something.”

Maybe it was because Logan didn’t know what he would do once he was free and wanted to postpone the pressure of that inevitable decision, but he let Deceit lead him across the mansion and up many flights of stairs and different elevators to the top of the building. They reached the final floor and Deceit walked in front of him along the hallway to a door. He opened it, and the sight froze Logan in place.

The room was huge, with a high ceiling painted with the night sky and with a giant telescope pointing out of it. In the center of the room was a spherical screen, showing a full view of the Earth rotating and its changing weather. The space was surrounded by rows of shelves with uncountable books in them on the right and the racks of computation nodes for a supercomputer on the left. The wall adjacent to the door on that side was covered with screens that at the moment showed footage of the city, a database with information about the superheroes, constant news updates, and more. On the other side of the door, the wall had shelves with equipment for chemical experiments, and a long desk in front of it to work on them.

Logan stood at the entrance with his mouth agape, until he felt the smooth fabric of Deceit’s glove under his chin as he gently pushed his jaw back up.

“Wh— What’s all this?”

“Just a little gift,” Deceit answered, looking proudly at the room, “that I prepared for when you decided to join us.”

Logan stuttered, incapable of speech or thought. “For me?” he managed to say.

“Just for you.”

Looking around him, trying to get over the initial shock, Logan tried to get his thoughts in order. “No. No, this is bribery! I am not exchanging my freedom for—“ his eyes shifted and his voice was trembling “— for any of this. Just… return it to wherever you stole it from. I don’t want anything to do with it!”

“Oh come on, don’t act like a saint with strong principles now.” Deceit rolled his eyes to land directly on Logan’s, and began getting closer. “Don’t pretend you didn’t do whatever it took to comply with your little boss’s directions. I know what you were up to under those incognito accounts.”

Logan stumbled backwards until his back collided with the cold metal of a rack.

“Besides, it’s not only for bribery, I got all this because I do need it.” Deceit had stopped moving only a foot away from him and looked around once again. “Especially the computer. I need it for some exciting plans I am working on. And I need you to operate it.”

“Me?”

Deceit’s expression became softer. “Yes, Logan. I need you.”

Logan’s breath shouldn’t have been taken away by that simple sentence, but it was. He was needed. His entire life, all he had ever wanted was to be needed. He had always been replaceable, inconsequential, he entered and left every room without being noticed or cared for. He thought he was important for Prince’s team, but he wasn’t; it was clear to him now.

Something shifted inside him. Someone needed him. Deceit, the most powerful villain in the world, needed him.

He took a deep breath as soon as his tightened chest allowed him to, and as he let the air out, a word escaped with it.

“Okay.”

[8bitandbey0nd]

I can’t help but love the cover of Blue Sky Noise by Circa Survive.

In any other scenario this would be an image that disturbs most of its viewers but instead when paired with the album it has a sense of comfort and familiarity.

A creature that can’t fully be understood that is trying to eat the person it is behind. It lays its hands on them almost as if comforting them but we can see what it’s true intentions. It makes you wonder if the person staring at us knows their fate too? Simply waiting for something we won’t get to witness. The creature has human characteristics but still is part deer, an animal which is usually seen as gentle, capable of the destruction humanity is known for. It also carries a horn which is commonly depicted either before a large battle or with angels adding another double meaning to a creature already so full of them. It has a rainbow leaving its back. Something of beauty that can only appear after it rains. Lastly are its wings, which appear to be angelic but are instead attached to a creature of deceit.

Now onto our person. They appear androgynous the more I look at it and I like that. It feels as if anyone could find themselves in a scenario where they could be betrayed by something that was supposed to be safe but instead has been twisted into something dangerous and near unrecognizable. Their hand is covered in healed scars as it clutches their robes as if showing us their other arm which also appears scarred and reddened, possibly by a scenario similar to the one they currently find themself in. Speaking of their clothes, they wear robes that appear roman or greek which were both times riddled with betrayal and deceit. Their eyes are also gray and foggy as if they have already passed away yet they also appear to be staring back at us, the viewer.

I also appreciate its finishing touches like how all of that I just said ties into the lyrics of the songs and its themes such as loneliness, alienation, and feeling lost. The background of the piece also ties the whole thing together. You can’t tell which way is up with the ground and trees appearing on all sides and clouds that twist in all directions.

I also think there’s something beautiful about how human this is. If an AI had drawn this there would be no purpose. It would simply be an image of someone with a disfigured monster behind them since the AI can’t comprehend what it’s supposed to draw, but instead every brushstroke has intent behind it. It all was drawn by somebody who wanted to draw this and drew this exactly how they wanted. How spent the time and energy to draw such a beautiful piece of art.

Anyways, listen to this album wherever you listen to music and have a good day. Laters!

[wesleyhill]

On “Things Above”

A homily on Colossians 3:1-4 preached at the Cathedral Church of the Advent, Birmingham, Alabama on the Friday after the second Sunday in Lent 2023

Yesterday I spoke to you from the third chapter of St. Paul’s letter to the Colossian Christians in which he tells them: “Set your minds on things that are above, not on things that are on earth.”

I wonder how you think about that exhortation. What exactly is Paul asking believers to do? What does it mean to have your mind focused on heavenly realities, rather than this-worldly ones? A hymn that we used to sing in the church of my childhood spoke of “the things of earth [growing] strangely dim” in heaven’s overwhelming, eclipsing light.

But has that ever really been your experience? For myself, as soon as I start trying to tear my gaze away from my house, my family, my job, my concrete experiences in this life and attempt to focus on God and heaven and eternity, I can quickly experience one of two things. The first one is sheer confusion: a kind of blank, inscrutable screen.

Cicero, the famous Roman statesman who died a half century before the birth of Christ, tells a story in his treatise On the Nature of the Gods of the tyrant Hiero who demands that the lyric poet Simonides tell him about what it means for the gods to exist. Simonides begs for a couple of days to come up with an answer. When the two days pass and Hiero asks, “Well?” Simonides responds by asking for two more days. And this keeps going until finally Simonides confesses, “The longer I think about it, the murkier the answer seems.” And Cicero, the one telling the story, concludes that the nature of the gods — who or what and how they are, if they are — is a “very obscure question.”

The Protestant Reformer John Calvin, commenting on this story from Cicero, says that as soon as we begin to try to use our imaginations or instincts to picture God, we will “hold nothing certain or solid or clear, but [will] be so attached to confused principles as to worship an unknown God.”

But this experience of a blank, gray, faceless god can easily transition into a second experience, and that is the experience of fear. Onto the gray canvas there can start to seep, Rorshach-inkblot-like, disturbing images of a God who is cruel, vindictive, mercurial, capricious. Not just God as cosmic Santa Claus but God, as C. S. Lewis said he experienced him in the wake of losing his wife to cancer, as cosmic Sadist. God as not just obscure, but terrifying. Not just as One to be baffled by, but One to flee from.

Here, I think, it’s vital to read Paul’s exhortation in context: “Seek the things that are above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God.”

Notice: Paul isn’t urging us to try to cultivate some vague, ethereal kind of heavenly mindedness. He’s directing us to think about a particular person — “Christ,” the Messiah, Jesus, the one who died and is now alive with the one he called “Father,” who will come back and heal and restore us and the whole world. It's as if Paul is saying, “When I tell you to think about heaven, I’m telling you to think about that Jewish man named Jesus, who is now alive again and always lives to intercede for you.”

Paul spells it out in more detail in the great poetic passage with which he kicks off the whole letter:

He [Jesus] is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation; for in him all things in heaven and on earth were created, things visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or powers — all things have been created through him and for him. He himself is before all things, and in him all things hold together. He is the head of the body, the church; he is the beginning, the firstborn from the dead, so that he might come to have first place in everything. For in him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, and through him God was pleased to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, by making peace through the blood of his cross.

To “set your mind on things above,” rather than on earthly things, is to think about Jesus. And not just to think about Jesus in some general way but to allow the life of Jesus to affect and shape and define the way you think about God.

This is — we need to recognize — a claim that should sound more shocking to us than it probably does. Rowan Williams reminds us:

Paul is roughly the same age as Jesus, perhaps a few years younger; and twenty or so years after Jesus’ execution, Paul is saying that this person, his contemporary, somebody who was well known to people Paul knew well, is the image of God — that in him, as he just as startlingly puts it 1 Corinthians 1.24, is the power and wisdom of God; or that — as he says in 2 Corinthians 4.4-6 — in his face shines the glory of God, what the Jews called the shekhinah, the blinding radiance of God’s presence. In Hebrew Scripture, this presence is described as radiating so powerfully that it throws people to the ground; it’s like a dense fog of light that you can’t breathe in and you can’t stand in… And that glory, that stifling intensity of presence in holy places, is what you see and sense if you look at Jesus, so Paul claims: a strong claim, to put it mildly. Imagine for a moment what a leap of imagination would be involved in thinking of someone of your own generation and background in terms like that.

There are, it seems, two directions we could go at this point. One would be to think through what it might mean to say about a first-century Jewish man, whom we Christians believe to be now alive forever, never to die again — what it might mean to say that in this one individual human person “all the fullness of deity was pleased to dwell.” That would be to ask the question of “Christology,” the Christian understanding of the person of Jesus of Nazareth as God’s Messiah.

But the other direction travels from the ground up, so to speak: What does it mean now to talk about God (to “set our minds on heavenly things”) if we say that this particular human life and death and resurrection, the existence of the man Jesus from his birth to his exaltation to the right hand of the Father in heaven, tells us the true meaning and essence of what it means to be God?

How would it change the way you think about God, the way you pray, the way you worship and seek to obey God, the way you try to put God’s commands into practice in your Christian life, if you really believed that God is knowable ultimately, finally, climactically in Jesus?

The late Reformed theologian T. F. Torrance worked as a chaplain during World War II. One day on a battlefield in Italy, a dying soldier, only twenty years old, grasped Torrance’s arm and said, “Padre, is God really like Jesus?”

Isn’t that a terribly poignant question? And isn’t it also, ultimately, the question of life? Is the God whom I’m about to meet face to face, the One who made me and will judge me and determine my ultimate fate — is that God really going to turn out to be the compassionate Father Jesus said he is and showed him to be in his healings and his pronouncements of forgiveness and his assurance of mercy? Or am I going to find some more sinister character lurking behind the curtain of Jesus’ life and ministry?

Torrance said it was the great privilege of his life to have spent the rest of his theological career spelling out the answer he gave to the dying soldier on the battlefield that day: Yes. Yes. God is like Jesus.

There is… no God behind the back of Jesus Christ, but only this God whose face we see in the face of the Lord Jesus. There is no deus absconditus, no dark inscrutable God, no arbitrary Deity of whom we can know nothing but before whom we can only tremble as our guilty conscience paints harsh streaks upon his face. No, there are no dark spots in God of which we need to be afraid… There is only the one God who has revealed himself in Jesus Christ in such a way that there is perfect consistency and fidelity between what he reveals of the Father and what the Father is in his unchangeable reality… God really is like Jesus, for there is no other God than he who became man in Jesus and he whom God affirms himself to be and always will be in Jesus.

Or as Archbishop Michael Ramsey once put it much more concisely: “God is Christlike; and in God there is no unChristlikeness at all.”

Jesus is, as Paul says in Colossians, the image of the God we cannot see. He is the perfect self-interpretation of God. He is the face of God turned toward us in love.

So, friends, set your minds on things above, not on earthly things — earthly idols, false images, distorted pictures of God. Seek the things that are above, where Jesus Christ is, seated at the right hand of God.

To him be the glory, forever and ever.

Amen.

[liminalpsych]

All those popular medieval fantasy renderings of knights on giant baroque warhorses? All those movies with knights on towering black Friesian horses?

Yeah, that’s not anywhere near accurate.

Real knights ride ponies.

Probably ones like these native English breeds:

Exmoor ponies, the oldest native pony breed in England, running wild and with a random human for scale, who are around 12hh / 4 feet / 1.2 meters tall at the shoulder:

Orkney/Scotland probably had horses like the Eriskay pony. Also around around 12hh / 4 feet / 1.2 meters tall at the shoulder, sometimes a few inches taller (but that may be a more modern height). Interestingly, the Eriskay is almost always gray, sometimes with dappling... which is the color of Gawain of Orkney's horse Gringolet. Interesting. I'll do a separate post exploring that.

Southern England probably had something like the New Forest ponies, though they probably looked a little less refined than they do now, because they got an influx of Spanish breeds and even some Thoroughbred later on. They would have been the same height as the other two breeds at the time, though they're a bit taller now.

Honestly the details of the study are really interesting, and cover more than just “knights rode shorter horses than we thought”.

Before we go further, some definitions (time period / dates are the ones defined in the paper):

Hand = 4”, the standard unit of measurement for horses, they are measured from the ground to the top of their shoulder. I’ll give units in hands, meters, inches, and feet so everyone can follow along.

Horse = anything 14.2hh or taller. (4’10” at the shoulder.) The average horse today is roughly 15hh / 5’ / 1.5m or a couple inches taller, but this varies wildly by breed and use.

Pony = anything 14.2hh or shorter (with some quibbling by breed; don’t call an Icelandic horse a pony or there will be hell to pay despite the average height of 13.2hh).

King Arthur’s supposed time was the ~500’s, or 6th century C.E. (Late 5th, early 6th, other times vary by source material, this is more detail than Tumblr cares about I’m sure.) This varies by source but I'm going with Geoffrey of Monmouth's in this case. He's all pseudohistory but is where Arthur was first popularized as a king so I figure that's as close to canon as Arthuriana gets.

Late Roman 300-410 CE

Early Saxon 410-700 CE

Late Saxon 700-1066 CE

Norman 1066–1200  CE

High medieval 1200–1350 CE

Late medieval 1350–1500 CE

Post medieval 1500-1650 CE

The study found that from the 5th-12th century, horses were generally 1.48m or shorter. (That’s 14.2hh, or 58 inches, or 5’4”, at the top of the horse’s shoulder.)

The tallest horse they found was 1.5m, or 14.3hh, or 5’5” at the shoulder. That is an inch taller than the cut off point for being a pony.

1230-1350 CE has the first horses over 1.6m tall / 15.3hh / 63” / 5’3”.

Horses don’t get significantly larger until the post-medieval period, 1500–1650 AD. That’s also when we get a wider range of heights (1.2m / 3’ 11” / 11.3hh to almost 1.7m / 5’7” / 16.3hh).

They also measured robusticity, which of course none of the summary articles covered. (I read the full text of the paper so you don't have to, but you can read it here if you want! It's really interesting and has a huge sample set across all of England.) Basically:

Saxon horses were the Most Robust

Norman period had the daintiest horses

horses started to get Thicc in the high medieval period

Horses started out kinda sturdy, got more delicate over time through the medieval period (especially in their hind legs), and then started getting more big boned in the post-medieval period

I was wondering aloud in the Camelot Discord about the Norman period suddenly getting daintier, when I realized that this might have been when light-boned Arabian horses got introduced to Britain. Another member asked when the Crusades happened, and sure enough:

"European horses soon felt an extensive infusion of Arabian blood, especially as a result of the Christian Crusaders returning from the East between the years 1099 A.D. and 1249 A.D."

The researchers seem to think it's more due to an earlier collapse in the horse trade in England. They do eventually acknowledge the possibility of Arabian horses interbreeding with the English ones, as well as Spanish/French/Moorish horses that were gifted to the Normans according to written sources.

[xandriagreat]

Brave Brothers | chapter 3

First chapter | Last chapter | Next chapter

Author's note: this is for @the-girl-with-the-glass-heart. 

Notice/Warnings: caps, accidentally walking in, fighting, deal/agreement

▪▪▪

The big day arrived and everyone was rushing to get everything prepared.

Remus HAD to take a bath, breaking his every once in a month bath cycle, which he didn't like. Only he gets to do that when he gets too muddy when it rains. He gets overstimulated when he's too muddy.

When Remus was cleaned up and was in his underwear, Roman, who was dressed and ready for the guests, came in with two boxes, one medium and the other small. Both twins looked at each other, one in confusion and the other in trying to stay in eye contact.

"What’s up?" Remus asked, breaking the awkward silence. Roman cleared his throat, tried to look at Remus in the face, and said, "I just wanted to bring you your newly tailored outfit and our signature ring for you to wear."

Remus hummed as the servants, who were helping Remus, got the two boxes. One got the outfit out of the box and helped Remus into the outfit.

It was a white shirt, light gray vest, dark pants, a black belt. 

The upside, it looked good on him. The downside,it was TIGHT! Mostly the shirt and vest. He could move a bit in the pants but not too much, like squat down fully.

Remus couldn’t move too much or else he would rip it and ruin it.

He looked at Roman, who was smiling softly. “It looks amazing on you.” Roman said, almost sounding like he’s going to cry.

“I feel like I’m wearing a corset.” Remus commented and groaned, looking down.

“Remus…” Roman statered, almost sounding sympathetic. Remus looked up, curious wonder in his eyes, and asked, “Yeah, Ro?”

Roman cleared his throat and smiled softly. “Remember to smile.” 

Then he got the signature ring out of the box and placed it on his twin’s right hand finger before he left the room.

Remus was surprised a bit as he watched his twin leave the room and then looked at the signature ring that was just put onto his right hand finger.

It was a design of dragons going through a spiral, almost like flower rose petals.

He sighed softly and went to go to the throne room.

◇

Everyone got to their places when it was almost time. Everyone was wearing their best for this event.

The royal family went and sat down on their thrones. Remus had to be reminded to sit up straight when he sat down. 

Everyone looked to the doors as the announcer announced, “Your majesties, I now present Lady Ember of the kingdom Flame!”

Then the royal family Flame, an older woman with three young men with a young woman by their side and a young woman who looked like she could be 16 years old, came in with their guards and some servants. When everyone was in the throne room and looking at the Flowra rulers.

Roman looked at Zelina and Richerd. They nodded to him like saying, ‘Go ahead. You got this.’

Roman breathed softly and stood up. “So, here we are! The two kingdoms. As we all know, this is for the two younger royalties of our kingdoms,” Roman started, smiling softly. He showed a hand to Remus, like he was presenting, as he continued, “To my knowledge, you all know my brother, Remus. So, no introduction but let’s have an introduction to Princess Lillain.” Roman went back to his seat, not looking at Remus, who was giving him a look.

Queen Ember smiled as Princess Lillain walked up a bit after being shoved by one of her brothers.

Lillian was thin and short. She had white blonde hair and light brown eyes. The princess looked nervous from some of the sweat, she showed a beautiful smile, but her eyes showed that she didn’t want to be here. She was wearing a thin green dress with dark blue and red detail in her dress.

“My Lillian is my only daughter and youngest out of my four children.” Queen Ember said, smiling softly. “She may not look like much but she’s strong and brave. For example, she defeated 100,000 foes while her brothers, Peter, James, and John, were away on a mission out of the kingdom.”

Everyone was impressed but not fully amused.

“I can hunt.” Lillian said finally. “I know that your kingdom is known for hunting and I’m really good at that.”

This got everyone’s attention.

“Like what?” Roman asked, a spark in his eyes like everyone else. Everyone was wanting to know what she could hunt.

“Well, anything. To the smallest bird to the biggest bear.”

Remus hatched a plan in his mind while she talked. He knew that the kingdom that’s hosting, the prince or princess chooses the game for the princes or princesses to compete in.

Then his thought process was interrupted by a loud fight that just started. Remus’ mind was full of confusion of what just happened and was wondering why everyone was fighting. He noticed that Roman got up, a strong dark feeling around him. The feeling was so strong that everyone in the room stopped fighting. Everyone gave the look of apology on their faces.

“Well… with that set aside. It’s tration that the one who is fighting for that hand must complete three rounds of the hand’s choice.” Roman explained, smiling again. 

Remus got a bit excited that he jumped out (without ripping) of his throne and exclaimed, “Archery! Archery!”

Everyone looked at Remus in surprise. 

Then Remus calmed down from his excitement and calmly said, “I choose archery.”

Roman smiled softly and called out, “Let the games begin!”

◇

Everyone was outside with some games for fun while the game for the archer was being set.

Everyone was so busy having fun that no one saw Remus put his bow and arrows in a place where he could grab them that was behind the royal tent to watch the game… or so Remus thought that everyone was so busy having fun. 

“What are you doing?”

Remus jumped and turned around quickly to see Lillain, who was looking at him. “I- nothing!” Remus exclaimed, trying to hide the bow and arrow behind himself.

Lillain gave him a look as she crossed her arms and looked at the bow and arrows. “Let me guess… you don’t want this to happen too…” she said, looking back at Remus. 

The prince was going to do an explanation but stopped and asked, “Wait- what do you mean by that?” 

Remus noticed that she was wearing a proper hunting outfit instead of the dress that she was wearing earlier and her hair is in a tight braid.

“I didn’t have a choice for this.” Lillian explained. “My big brothers are married and I’m the only one who isn’t hitched yet… descendants are a big thing in my family…”

Remus hummed softly and nodded in understanding.

Lillain looked down for a moment and said, “We all know the rules for this… if I hit at least one target center, it’s settled… that’s why I was looking for you.”

Remus pointed at himself. “Me? Why me?”

“I know that you are the GREATEST archer in all the land. So, I wanted to see if you wanted to do it and by the looks of it… you do.”

Remus nodded and replied, “Yeah… I do.”

Lillian smiled at him. “Great, I’ll see you at the shooting range.” she said as she walked away.

Remus smiled softly as went to his seat when it was almost time.

[elle-greenaways-last-braincell]

The Rose And Her Thorn

Masterlist

This may not be very good, but here you go!

Word Count: 1482

Part 1.

To most who crossed her path, Esmeria Roman was considered abnormal. She was 5'0, with silky dark brown hair and the most enchanting pair of stormy gray eyes that anyone had ever seen. Her family was a complicated one. Not that she was complaining, they were wonderful in her opinion, but they were considered just as abnormal (if not more so) as Esmeria. Her father was Hades, Lord of the Underworld, and her mother was Persephone, Goddess of Spring.

No one knew that of course. If people found out that her parents were Greek gods, her whole life, everything she had worked so hard to achieve, would go up in smoke. Only two people knew of Esmeria's parentage. The first was Larissa Weems, headmistress of Nevermore Academy, the school for outcasts (Vampires, Sirens, Werewolves, and people with powers in general). The second was Enid Sinclair, one of Esmeria's best friends.

You may be wondering, 'If it's a school for outcasts, why can't anyone know who her parents are?' The answer to that question is that to normies, the gods are simply myths, and it's best that they stay that way. It just makes it easier if the outcasts don't know either.

Esmeria got most of her powers from her mum, being able to manipulate plants and a little bit of the weather. She could manipulate the dead (animals and humans), but she could only do it once every so often, as it took a lot of energy out of her. Which is why she was now lying on Enid Sinclair's bed, half asleep, the young werewolf trying to cheer her up.

"Come on, Esmè! My new roomie's getting here today. Can you at least act happy for me? Please?"

Esmeria groaned, cracking her eyes open to glare at Enid. "You were the one who wanted to cuddle the squirrel, Enid."

Enid pouted, opening her mouth to speak, only to hear the door creak open. Esmeria lifted a finger, speaking the words, "Ding dong." Before rolling over as if to go to sleep while she listened to the voices of those who had entered the room.

"It's so... vivid." She heard a man's voice say, being immediately followed by Enid's perky, "Howdy, roomie!"

She sat up as Larissa Weems spoke. "Wednesday, this is Enid Sinclair."

Esmeria sat up on the bed, five heads turning to look at her, with three unfamiliar faces. The two oldest were a man and a woman, clearly married. The woman was stunning. She was tall, with long black hair and a long black tight-fitting dress. Her husband was shorter, also with black hair, wearing a grey pinstriped suit.

There was a girl standing between them (Wednesday), and she was the most beautiful person Esmeria had ever seen. Her long raven black hair was done into two braids that framed her face, and her fringe stopped just above her equally as dark eyes. Her skin was almost as pale as snow, and her eyes glared out at the room before her.

Esmeria paused for a second, regaining her composure, and walked calmly over to the small group, Weems smiling in a welcoming manner at the brunette's presence. "And this is Esmeria Roman, our resident florist."

Esmeria frowned at the headmistresses little jibe about her powers. "You know I resent the flower jokes, Larissa."

Enid glanced between the two, eventually stepping foward to speak to Wednesday. "Are you feeling okay? You look a little... pale."

Esmeria's eyes widened. "Enid you can't just ask that." She hissed.

Wednesday tilted her head imperceptibly, noticing the brunette's slight Italian accent.

Wednesday's mother moved foward a bit. "Wednesday always looks half dead."

Enid nodded lightly. "Oh." She then surged forward, arms wide for a hug. "Welcome to Ophelia Hall!"

Wednesday stepped backwards with a minorly disgusted expression on her face at the same time that Esmeria tugged Enid backwards, correctly assuming that Wednesday wasn't a hugger.

Enid shrugged, a smile still bright on her face. "Not a hugger. Got it."

Esmeria tuned out of the conversation slightly, as a small buzzing noise filled her head. She caught the words: "Please excuse Wednesday, she's allergic to colour." The buzzing slowly receded as Enid said: "Oh, wow."

Esmeria stepped foward, standing next to Enid. "If you don't mind me asking, what happens?"

Wednesday tilted her head, speaking flatly. "I break out into hives and the flesh peels off my bones."

Esmeria grinned, turning to Enid. "Enid, do you still have the death book I left here?"

Enid rolled her eyes. "Next to the pens."

Esmeria nodded and ran over to find it. Larissa sighed. "Sorry about her, she's a bit... morbid. Anyway, we've special ordered you a uniform, Wednesday." She chuckled.

Esmeria walked back to the group, a notebook clutched in her hand, pen scribbling furiously at the paper. Larissa sighed. "Enid, please take Wednesday to the registrar's office to pick it up along with her schedule, and give her a tour along the way. Maybe take Esmeria with you? I don't want her to blow anything up again."

Enid nodded, and so they were off.

❀⁂❀⁂❀

Enid, Esmeria and Wednesday were walking around the school, Enid chattering away happily, Esmeria looking very bored. "Nevermore was founded in 1791 to educate people like us. Outcasts, freaks, monsters, fill in your favorite marginalized group here."

Wednesday turned to look at Enid. "You can save the sanitized sales pitch. I don't plan on staying here for long."

Esmeria frowned, tilting her head. "Why not?"

"This was my parents idea." Wednesday glanced over to a picture containing an old fencing team. "Oh look, there's my mother smirking at me." She turned her head back to the blonde and brunette. "They've been looking for any excuse to send me here. It's all part of their nefarious, yet completely obvious plan."

Enid smiled slightly. "What plan?"

Wednesday turned back to look at the other two. "To turn me into a version of themselves."

Esmeria grinned (she seemed to be doing that a lot around Wednesday). "Well then, perhaps you can clear something up. Rumor's been swirling around that you killed a kid at your old school, and your parents pulled some strings to get you off."

Wednesday walked past Enid and Esmeria. "Actually it was two kids, but who's counting?"

Esmeria sighed in happiness, clutching Enid's arm. "Enid, she's perfect."

Enid raised an eyebrow, gazing at Esmeria in confusion. "How are you this whipped already? You know what, nevermind. Come on!"

And they walked after Wednesday.

❀⁂❀⁂❀

Enid spread her arms out. "This is the quad."

Wednesday spoke, taking the words right out of Esmeria's mouth. "It's a pentagon."

Enid sighed, walking away with the two short girls following her. "The whole snarky goth girl thing might have worked at normie school, but here things are different. Let me give you a wiki on Nevermore's social scene."

"I'm not interested in participating in tribal adolescent clichés."

"Well then use it to fill your obviously bottomless pit of disdain." Enid said, somewhat smugly, and Esmeria rolled her eyes at her friend.

Enid spoke again, with a smile this time. "There are many flavors of outcasts here, but the four main cliques are Fangs, Furs, Stoners and Scales." She counted them off on her fingers. "Those are the Fangs, AKA vampires."

Esmeria leaned close to Wednesday's face. "Some of them have literally been here for decades."

Enid smiled, walking further foward. "That bunch of knuckleheads are Furs, AKA werewolves. Like me!" Upon spotting her, all of the Furs started howling at Enid.

The trio stopped walking, all looking out at the quad (pentagon). Esmeria spoke this time. "Full moons get pretty loud around here. That's when Furs like, wolf out. I suggest you pick up noise-canceling headphones. Or you can bunk with me!"

Wednesday turned to look at her, and a blush spread across the brunette's cheeks. "My dad pulled some strings, so I don't have a roommate. I soundproofed my room so I can't her them, and they can't hear me."

Wednesday nodded slowly, then turning to look at Enid. "I'm assuming Scales are sirens?"

Enid nodded. "You catch on quick. And that girl, Bianca Barclay, is the closest thing Nevermore has to royalty. Apart from Esmeria, but that's something different."

Wednesday's head turned back to Esmeria, who moved closer to Enid, now standing in the middle. "I don't understand why we can't just kill her."

Wednesday was intrigued. Enid was not. "Because, Esmé, murder is illegal."

Esmeria rolled her eyes. "That has never stopped me before."

Both of Wednesday's eyebrows had now disappeared behind her fringe. Had this sweet girl really killed people? If so, how did they anger her to the point of committing murder? As much as she did not want to admit it, Wednesday liked Esmeria Roman. The mystery surrounding her was one that Wednesday wanted to untangle.

[fruitviking]

(I also tripped and fell and don't know how this happened)

“By the by,” said Sherlock Holmes with the stem of her pipe between her teeth, “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

“Ask away,” I said, puffing on my own cigar. We could smoke such things in the privacy of our own home.

“How on earth did you manage to join the army?”

I laughed. “It’s rather a long story.”

Holmes had draped herself over the settee in the lackadaisical manner of a Roman emperor, one slender arm laid along the back and her feet resting in my lap. She regarded me through half-lidded eyes. “I have time.”

“Then allow me to give you a lesson in Watson family history.” I thought it over for a moment. Where to begin? “I originally wanted to go into nursing.”

She smiled. “A regular Florence Nightingale, hm?”

“That was the idea. My father passed away when I was thirteen. Mother was a seamstress, and without his income we struggled to make ends meet. She did try to teach me the skills so I might earn alongside, and I picked up some of it, but I was never as good as her.”

Holmes nodded in understanding. “You used that knowledge to alter your clothing.”

“I’m getting to that.” I leaned back and crossed my ankles. “I had an older brother, too. He brought in money, but not in any reliable way, and he spent most of it on his own bad habits. Still, my mother doted on him. She was devastated when he died, and passed not long after. It wasn’t so much of a surprise to me, really; she already worked herself far too hard, and losing her boy so suddenly was the last straw. That was that.”

“You seem to have lived the unfortunate life of a Dickensian protagonist, my dear Watson,” Holmes commented softly.

I gave her a wry smile. “I suppose it does sound a touch melodramatic.”

“A touch, yes.” She adjusted the folds of her dressing gown over her long legs. “So. Nursing.”

“Nursing. It seemed the right path, alone as I was. The matron at St. Bart’s took me on for training. I found the work fascinated me. I managed to buy myself an old copy of Gray’s Anatomy, along with a few other textbooks, and read them all through over and over, far more than was necessary. A nurse does not perform surgeries, and yet I learned how. I was determined. As time went on I found, however, that in spite of my knowledge and experience, I was very often dismissed. Doctors did not want to hear my suggestions, even when I knew as much as them. It was aggravating. How can a nurse be deemed essential one moment, and an imbecile the next?”

“It is strange that a woman’s delicate sensibilities are not a factor when it comes to a hospital environment.”

“Until they are,” I grumbled. “You understand I am not dismissing the work of nurses, not at all. They are essential, and they do incredible things, in spite of what anyone else may say. I simply realised it was not for me.”

“And now we come to the army.”

I blushed sheepishly. “In answer to your initial question, I joined under my brother’s name.”

“Did you, now.” My friend’s eyes gleamed. I could not fathom what she might be thinking.

“I was surprised that no-one questioned me too closely,” I said, “but I proved myself well enough. Perhaps they were desperate, I don’t know. Henry Watson was sent to Netley, then off with the Northumberland Fusiliers. You know the rest. And you’re correct, by the way - what I learned from my mother was invaluable, not only with adjusting my clothes to hide my shape but for my doctorly duties. I could stitch up a slash from a cutlass with the best of them. I wonder sometimes,” I added with more than a little pride in my tone, “had I not been injured, if they ever would have found me out.”

“Why, Joan Watson, you sly creature.” Holmes sat up straight and brandished her pipe at me accusingly. “There you go, writing what an effective criminal I would make if I used my skills against the law, while you were the one falsifying your identity and qualifications in the name of serving our country. Never again shall I accuse you of being too honest.”

“You never should anyway,” I laughed, “when I continue to lie all the time.”

“We each have our disguises.”

“I prefer the term ‘nom-de-plume’.”

“I shall endeavour to remember that.” She flashed me a wicked grin, then her features softened. She reached out and laced our fingers together. “Hm. John is not so dissimilar to Joan, though you are definitely not a Henry. Watson will do, I think.”

I lifted her pale, elegant hand to my lips. “I’d like that, Holmes.”

oh I tripped I fell I don’t know how this happened

[darkmaga-returns]

Here’s a graph which I entitle Gradually Then Suddenly (ladies, try not to swoon over my astonishing artistic gifts):

If you’re a classicist you might prefer the title Motus In Fine Velocior, which means things accelerate at the end. Which was the old way to say Gradually Then Suddenly.

The collapse that interests us today is Western Christianity. We had the Gradually. A case can be made we’re now, or soon will be, in the Suddenly.

If you are inclined to dismiss this claim out of hand and stop reading, then please meet “Luce”, the Vatican’s mascot for the Holy Year of 2025. The daisy-chain emblem on its chest is usually presented in rainbow colors. Brony-boy Christianity has arrived. It gives me felt-banner flashbacks and when I look at it I swear I can hear treacly Intro-To-Piano communion music playing as I look at it.

In the briefest way possible, leaving aside all sublties, let’s trace the curve of Gradually.

Western Christianity suffered a hit as it neared its peak about a thousand years ago when the Orthodox and Romans had a dispute about a vowel (I do not jest). Yet, in the end, this was more a practical than a spiritual split. The real decline began with events leading up to some Christians Protesting certain excesses, but drawing from their success the unfortunate conclusion that every man could, should, and would be his own priest.

They weren’t wrong in this prediction. They nailed it. Protesting Christian sects at first swelled in numbers wonderful to behold. Yet since interpretation is free, nothing prevents belief in the proposition “We don’t need the transcendent”. This was embraced and the masses began falling off. Membership in once enormous Protesting groups is now reduced to a husk, peopled only by a dry remnant. Think Church of England. One fellow tracks a number of UK Protesting sects and figures most will be extinct in 10 years. Whether that’s true, there is no sense of any increase, especially in those without gray hair. It’s not helping that even as the ordained decrease, the majority are now women (55% new ordinations in 2020 were women in the CoE).

One man has a site entirely devoted to church attendance modeling. To pick what might be the best single picture from the site, here is the membership in Methodists in Great Britain (up to 2020). Don’t forget, while looking at this, that the Great Britain population was about 10 million at the start of the plot, and was about 69 million at the end. So it is much worse than it looks.

[theprayerfulword]

May 31

Matthew 10:29-30 Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. 30 And even the hairs of your head are all counted.

Psalm 92:14-15 [The righteous] will bear fruit even when old and gray; they will remain lush and fresh 15 in order to proclaim: “The LORD is righteous. He’s my rock.”

Matthew 10:8 Freely you have received, freely give.

Colossians 4:6 Let your speech always be with grace, seasoned with salt, that you may know how you ought to answer each one.

Romans 12:11 Never be lacking in zeal, but keep your spiritual fervor, serving the Lord.

2 Corinthians 5:17 Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.

May you understand that only the counsel of God will stand, and all other counsels will succeed or fail based on whether they align with God's wisdom or not. 2 Samuel 17

May you obey the Lord and give comfort to His people in distress, supporting them in their need from your abundance, for the Lord does not need your help, but He richly recompenses all that is done for His brethren as though it were done to Himself. 2 Samuel 17

May you speak what God gives you, in accordance with His word, that you may rest in His integrity and rely on His power, for He watches over His Word to perform it, and it is not up to you to make it happen. 2 Samuel 17

May you find your identity in the Lord, through His Spirit of truth, and not in the world or your skills, or even in His gifts or His work, for all will change as seasons come and go, but He will remain the same forever. 2 Samuel 17

May you rejoice and gladly accept that, through the obedience of Christ Jesus, the second man Adam, the long process of redemption that was walked out after the transgressions of the first man Adam has now been finished. John 19

May you gratefully receive the justification which Christ Jesus brought within your grasp and willingly follow the path of sanctification which the Spirit has been sent to lead you along. John 19

Be all you can, My child, just as I have made you. Do not compare yourself with others, for I have formed them for other tasks. Do not ask how far you have come, or how far you have to go, but simply look to Me, for then I will draw you. I have placed you, My special one, where you need to be now, and I will move you, when the time comes, to where I have planned. Grow and blossom, My fair one, where I have planted you, but wear the world loosely, clinging only to Me, so that when I transplant you, the time of change will be no more than the change of weather. Times of sorrow come to everyone, so find your happiness in the hope I give you. Seasons of trouble come upon the world, My precious one, so remain patient and endure in the work I give you. The world system conquers all that it owns, My called-out one, but you are no longer of the world and your prayers have power with Me. Be instant in prayer and persistent in petition to Me for others, for I choose to work through you to reach those who hunger and thirst but are still held captive. Do not let up, do not cease to pray, do not doubt that I hear and answer. Whisper a prayer for comfort over the one I point out to you as you pass in the marketplace, ask Me to minister to the one I highlight in your heart, write encouragement to the one who I have brought to your thoughts, and speak My love and mercy to one I bring to your door. Those who are crossing Kidron need to know that, just like you, just like David, just like Jesus, there is victory afterwards, and they will be able to drink the clear water with joy from the well of salvation.

May you long desperately for God's commandments and to draw deeply of the Spirit's breath, for His statutes are wonderful and the unfolding of His Word gives light and understanding to the simple. Psalm 119

May the Lord let no sin rule over you as He turns to you in mercy, directing your footsteps according to His word and redeeming you from the oppression of men as He always does for those who love His name, so that you may obey His precepts. Psalm 119

May the Lord make His face shine upon you and teach you His decrees, for your heart is broken and tears stream from your eyes because God's laws are not obeyed. Psalm 119

May you love the faithful promises of God and the righteous statutes He has laid down, for they have been thoroughly tested and and are fully trustworthy; even though the enemy ignores the Word of the Lord, God is righteous and His laws are right. Psalm 119

May you not forget God's precepts though trouble and distress come upon you, for His righteousness is everlasting, His law is eternally true, and His statutes are forever right; though you feel lowly in your own sight and despised by the enemy, it is because you delight in the Lord's commands that He will give you understanding which will make you prosper. Psalm 119

May you rise before dawn and call out for help with all your heart to the Lord as you obey His decrees and keep His statutes, putting your hope in His word, for He will answer you and save you from your distress. Psalm 119

May you meditate on God's promises when sleep does not come through the night-time hours, for the Lord will hear your voice in accordance with His love, and will preserve your life according to His laws. Psalm 119

May you trust that all of the Lord's commands are true and He has established them to last forever, therefore even when mischief-makers and lawless people come to attack you, you will know that they are far from God's law, and the Lord Himself is near to you; His truth is in your heart and His word even in your mouth. Psalm 119

May you consider wrongdoing to be disgusting and an abomination, even as Jesus, the King of kings, detests it, for His throne is established by righteousness and justice. Proverbs 16:12

May you take pleasure in honest speech and righteous lips, even as Jesus, your King, treasures it, for His kingdom belongs to those who rightly divide the word of truth. Proverbs 16:13